Invitation of Greed

The mist had fled.

Not drifted.

Not faded.

It had recoiled.

Burned away like smoke in sunlight.

And in its absence, the battlefield remained.

Still.

Silent.

Stained.

Koda stood alone among the dead.

Breathing shallowly.

Bleeding slowly.

Burned and bruised and barely upright.

But standing.

He looked down at the ruin around him and felt the weight of it all settle onto his shoulders.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Only the cold wind stirred, carrying the smell of charred flesh, open blood, and the distant sting of ash.

His first step forward was small.

His boots crunched softly over frost-hardened soil.

A whisper of sound in a world gone mute.

Bodies littered the ground like scattered memories.

The dead of Greed's hoard lay twisted and torn—corpses misshapen by the magic that had animated them.

Jaws unhinged.

Claws splintered.

Torsos snapped backward like broken dolls.

Some still clung to rusted blades. Others reached toward nothing, their hands frozen mid-grasp.

The magic had left them hollow again.

No longer soldiers.

Just remnants.

Between them, like cracks in the earth, were the fallen of Callestan.

Men and women in gray and bronze.

Order tokens still clutched in stiff hands.

Arrows snapped in the dirt.

Shields split clean in two.

Helmets torn from heads by claws or fire or worse.

Koda paused beside one.

A young man—barely older than himself. Maybe younger.

His eyes were open.

Clouded now, unseeing, but still wide with the last flicker of terror.

A clean spear wound straight through his ribs.

There was no blood on the boy's blade.

Not fast enough.

Koda bent slowly—his knees threatening to give beneath him—and closed the boy's eyes.

Then stood.

The pain in his side screamed as he straightened, but he didn't wince.

He just kept walking.

He passed another heap of bodies—three of them.

Locked together in death.

One had a shattered horn still clutched in one hand, a rally tool.

The second wore the tattered remains of a medic's cloak, arms stretched as if shielding the third.

The third was unidentifiable.

Burned beyond recognition.

Koda moved around them without a word.

Step after step, he moved through the wreckage of the night.

Each one felt like it dragged the world behind it.

His blades were still in his hands, though he couldn't remember why he hadn't sheathed them.

They trembled slightly now—not from fear.

From exhaustion.

From the fight still echoing in his bones.

From the voice of Greed still clawing at the back of his mind, like a dream that refused to end.

A jagged ruin rose to his left—a siege tower the enemy had tried to animate.

Now it lay cracked and twisted, its wooden frame burned down the center.

Inside, corpses were fused into the wood. Piled like offerings. Glued together by rot and ice.

Koda didn't look long.

He couldn't.

Farther out, the Order's banners stood limp in the cold air.

Some were torn.

Some were buried under bodies.

A few still stood upright, untouched, like silent sentinels.

He passed one now, planted deep into the skull of a massive, bloated ghoul.

The body had collapsed forward, swallowing half the banner's length.

Koda nodded once to it.

The unnamed soldier who'd placed it had made a statement.

And the enemy had heard it.

The gates were still distant.

They sat at the far end of the blood-soaked field, towering over the broken land.

They looked impossibly far away.

But each step brought him closer.

He passed a familiar mark.

A series of stone bracers pounded into the earth—Terron's fallback line.

The place where the hammer had made his stand.

The ground here was cratered. Cracked. Burned.

Hundreds of broken bodies lay in misshapen rings around the field.

Koda slowed only briefly, seeing the shape of Terron's footprints stamped deep in the soil.

Still warm.

Still fresh.

Alive.

Good.

He moved again.

Beyond that point, the corpses changed.

Fewer enemies.

More allies.

Scattered. Sprawled. Limbs pointing every which way.

He passed a woman with the silver-stitched armor of a forward scout.

Her throat had been torn open.

Her eyes were closed.

There was no weapon near her body.

She hadn't run.

Koda saw the faint scorch marks on her gloves.

A mage, maybe.

One who hadn't had time to cast more than a single spell.

His shoulder throbbed.

His side burned.

Every breath came through grit and will alone.

But the gates were closer now.

He could see the flicker of torches on the walls.

Could see shadows shifting above—watchers.

Guards.

Allies.

He moved past the last of the corpses and found the ground untouched.

Snow trampled by boots.

No blood here.

Not yet.

Not today.

And as he approached the base of the gate, it began to open.

A groan of ancient stone and steel.

A sound that cut through the dawn like a cry.

Figures emerged slowly.

Not charging.

Not fearful.

Waiting.

Terron was among them, helmet off, blood crusted down the side of his jaw.

Maia stood beside him, hands clenched, lips parted as if she'd been holding her breath the whole time he was gone.

She took a single step forward.

"Koda."

He stopped a few feet from them.

The wind caught his cloak.

His blades lowered.

His knees trembled.

But he remained standing.

He looked at them.

At the faces behind them.

At the soldiers, the civilians, the runners, the priests.

The city.

The people.

The living.

And said, simply:

"It's done. For now."

No cheer rang out.

No fanfare.

No applause.

Just silence.

And then the slow, rippling sound of a thousand souls exhaling.

The war was not over.

But the night had passed.

And the man who had held the line—

Had returned.

The gates closed behind him with a deep, final groan.

Koda walked into Callestan on unsteady legs, the weight of survival pressing harder now than it had in the battle.

Around him, the city exhaled. No cheers, no trumpet. Just a solemn wave of motion — soldiers slumping against stone, medics standing a bit straighter, civilians watching from behind shuttered doors.

He was their proof.

That dawn had come.

Terron was the first to reach him inside the gates, giving him a quick once-over with bloodshot eyes. "You look like shit."

Koda managed a faint smile. "And you look like someone who got hit by a wall."

"We're both standing," Terron said with a shrug. "That's good enough."

Koda turned to the nearest runner.

"Bring Veros to the Order hall. Send word to the generals as well — I want them assembled within the hour. We've won the night, but this isn't over."

The runner blinked, still wide-eyed from seeing him alive. But he nodded and darted off without a word.

The climb to the Order's inner chamber was slower than Koda would've liked.

Every stair reminded him of torn muscle and bruised bone. His wounds throbbed with each movement, the adrenaline long gone.

But he didn't stop.

Not yet.

The chamber was cool and silent when he entered.

Veros was already waiting near the circular table, hands folded behind his back. The head of the Callestan branch of the Order stood tall despite his age — silver hair braided in the pattern of the Hand, his token blacker than polished obsidian.

He turned as Koda entered, eyes sharp with questions.

"Koda."

"Veros," Koda said, stepping to the table.

"We need to talk."

The doors shut behind them.

And the war resumed — in words.

Koda explained everything.

What Greed had said.

The offer.

The rift.

The awakening of the other fragments.

The inevitability of the war that was coming — not in waves of mindless dead, but in the rise of ancient desire, each clawing for dominance to reforge a god that had once shattered the heavens.

And Greed's mistake.

His invitation.

Veros didn't interrupt.

Not once.

He only listened, his sharp expression slowly hardening into something grim and resolute.

When Koda finished, the older man exhaled slowly, folding his arms.

"We knew the Fragments might begin to stir again," Veros said at last. "But to hear it confirmed… to hear it from a voice speaking through a battlefield…"

He looked to Koda.

"And you intend to go."

Koda nodded once.

"I can't let this sit. Not now. The scar Greed left in our world is a wound. We either strike through it, or let it fester until it swallows another city."

Veros studied him for a long moment.

Then, softly: "You'll need a team."

"I'll assemble one," Koda said. "Give me a week. We earned that much. I need to rest. I need to make sure the others do, too."

Veros bowed his head slightly. "Then the Order is at your disposal, Guide. Whatever you require."

They left the chamber in silence.

The war table in the military hall was surrounded by generals when Koda arrived, flanked by officers, war clerics, and city strategists.

They rose as one when he entered, their fists to their chests — not out of ceremony, but from a newfound respect forged on the edge of annihilation.

He waved the gesture away and stepped up to the table, nodding once to General Varrik.

"The enemy is broken," Koda began, "but not gone."

He gestured to the eastern quadrant of the city, marked in red on the map.

"Greed's scar is still open beyond the hills. We cut down his officers, but the wound in the world still pulses with power. That means lesser undead will keep appearing. Dumb, feral. But dangerous."

He looked around the room.

"They'll drift. Hunt by instinct. Especially at night. We need a day shift focused on repairs, reinforcement, and routing survivors. And a night shift prepared for combat."

A woman near the back spoke up. "And the wall?"

"Keep it manned," Koda said. "Not full strength — just enough. Focus archers and mages on the perimeter. Prioritize fire and holy magic. No need to risk close-range until we know what's returning. Rotate your teams. Don't burn them out."

He paused, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the table.

"The wall held because we planned. We adapt, we survive."

Varrik nodded sharply. "And you?"

"I'll be here for seven days," Koda said. "After that, I go into the scar."

The words hung heavy.

No one questioned him.

They simply accepted it — because none of them could imagine stopping him now.

The meeting dispersed shortly after.

Orders were relayed.

Schedules drawn.

Defensive lines shuffled and reinforced.

Koda stepped into the corridor and leaned against the wall briefly, letting his head fall back with a quiet sigh.

The pain was louder now, dull and deep.

His legs barely wanted to hold him.

Soft footsteps approached.

He didn't have to open his eyes to know it was Maia.

"You should be in bed," she said gently.

"I should be a lot of things," he murmured.

She moved beside him, brushing a hand against his forearm.

"The hospital's stable," she said. "We've cleared out the triage courtyard. Runners are bringing clean water now. Casualty list is long. But manageable."

Koda nodded slowly.

"You need time," Maia said.

He looked at her, really looked — at the smudges under her eyes, the way her armor still bore dried blood she hadn't bothered to clean.

"So do you."

She smiled faintly, tired but real.

"Then let's both take it."

Koda let his head rest against hers, just for a moment.

No words.

No vows.

Just presence.

"One week," he whispered.

"Then we go."