In the beginning, there was Light.
The Light of Existence came first, radiant and unbroken. Beneath it the earth was formed, and upon the earth the seas poured forth. From the waters of life the soil quickened, and every seed awoke, sprouting green abundance. The plants gave forage, and the forage gave sustenance, and so the beasts of land, sea, and sky came into being.

Last of all, the Lord AVO shaped His greatest work. From the clay of the soil, AVO fashioned Adam, the first man—strong of limb, ambitious of heart, and brave in spirit. Yet man was not meant to walk alone. From Adam’s bone AVO wrought Eve, the first woman—elf-born, shrewd and sensible, her soul tempered with divine strength.

In Eden, the hidden paradise, they grew from lowly beast to divinely inspired being. There they stood upright, their eyes opened to the difference between right and wrong through the fruit of the sacrosanct tree: the Fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.

But their kind were cast out of paradise. Wandering long, Adam and Eve found a land of promise, and there they built the First Kingdom. Under the Lord God it prospered, and their children multiplied, becoming a nation blessed with abundance.

From the dark places of the world crept the Nephilim, seeking dominion over the Sons of Adam and the Daughters of Eve. United, the First Kingdom rose against them, and through blood and fire expanded their dominion across the earth.

Then came the great Flood. The waters swallowed the world, and the Kingdom perished beneath the waves. Only those who clung to mountain peaks or to the Ark of AVO’s faithful endured, preserving within it every kind of beast. When the waters at last receded, the remnant descended upon the lands of Balandaria to begin anew.

Man and elf sought to rebuild what was lost, yet grief breeds despair, and despair breeds hatred. In time, brother turned upon brother, sister upon sister, man upon elf, and the children of the First Kingdom could no longer dwell together. They divided, scattering across the earth, each forging their own ways—new theologies, new histories, new tongues, new kingdoms.

From the Emberstone Mountains arose the Dwarven and the Gnomic peoples, tribes of tireless diligence.
From the forests of Avalon came the Fey, the Seelie and Unseelie Courts, ancient and perilous.
From the heavens descended the Dragons, who once stood as saviors of mortalkind against unseen evils, before turning toward dominion themselves.
And from the deeps of Inferius came the exiled and the lost, where Hell’s fires are said to burn eternal.

Thus began the long struggle of mortalkind, ever beset by shadow. From the Far Realms came horrors beyond understanding. From the skies descended the Dragon Imperium, seizing the world in an Age of Tyranny. From Inferius arose Skorm the Sorceress, who bound herself in oath to Satanael and made war upon AVO’s dominion.

Against her, the Divine Alliance sent five champions: Ser Avalor the Paladin, Lady Noscrim the Healer, Dwerin Dragonsbane the Dwarven Champion, Renard Neustria the Mystic King, and Mulias Nyrnvac, the Twilight Queen of the Elves. Together they struck down Skorm, yet theirs was a Pyrrhic triumph. For with her fall, a cataclysm tore through creation, twisting chosen mortals into monstrous shapes even as their souls endured.

Thus began the Great Schism. The changed and broken were cast out by their kin, hunted and despised. Satanael, dark prince of rebellion, gathered them to him and bade them flee across the eastern seas. He promised sanctuary, and vengeance yet to come.

In the far continent of Myrathis they found haven. There Satanael and the exiles forged the Alazarian Dominion, uniting monsters and men alike in their resentment against AVO and the Divine Alliance. From his union with the sorceress Skorm was born his heir, Saskia Alazar, destined to lead the Dominion in his stead.

Now the wheel of history turns once more. Ancient evils stir. Old hatreds burn anew. The Alazarian Dominion rises in Myrathis, and their eyes turn westward toward Balandaria.

But hope yet remains, as mysterious and benevolent forces act to safeguard their charges...

Sophia Pistis -- ??? -- ??? | A walk under endless stars and an emerging evil

Barefoot, Sophia tread across fields of silver grass, sprouting from bleached soil darkened by pools of star-reflected water. Overhead, the open sky shimmered with a prismatic web of nebulas woven into the canvas of night.

She knew herself as Sophia Pistis—both Wisdom and Faith. Both an anodyne of sweet succor and a bitter draught. She had come into this world from the Pleroma, drawn by her belief in the mortal condition, in the paradox of their limits and their vast capabilities.

Time and again she remembered their bravery—fragile lives standing against decrepit forces, threats so great they could unmake even an aeon such as herself. That memory humbled her as it did shamed her. For this reason, she had defied her kind and descended, meddling where she had been forbidden to do so.

Perhaps it was folly, unbecoming of Wisdom itself. Yet wisdom was born of consequence, and consequence from action. A fool could become wise, but only by daring to err. And what is a fool but a wise man too late?

Mortals, she mused, had always shown a capacity for thoughtfulness that rivaled even her own. It would be too easy to speak too much, to tell them truths that belonged to their own hardened journeys. Already she exceeded her mandate; already her interference would be judged an affront to those she served alongside.

Still, she could not keep herself from conspiring—working within the bounds of her kind, bending the rules where she could—to save this fragile world from another sundering. If there was a price for such defiance, she had already accepted it.

For what haunted her most was not the wrath of her peers, but the weight of her own mistakes.

Sophia followed the twisting ivory roots until they merged into a single towering form. A living tree of mithril rose before her—a monument wrought from the silver of stars. Its leaves shimmered kaleidoscopically, mirroring the jeweled sky above, while its trunk glowed with a chromatic sheen.

She laid her hand upon the bark. Memories surged at once: the thrill of creation, the ache of endings, and the echo of an old friend dwelling still within.

“Nai lúmë raica, meldo yára nín. [It has been some time, my old friend.]” Sophia murmurs in the tongue of the Elves. The branches swayed though no wind stirred. Leaves rustled like sighs before falling still. A voice, aged and feminine, spoke from within:

“Aiya, Sophia, ná calima ar núra nórenyallo. Lá úvë i turë ya toyen, cé. [Oh, Sophia, your presence is both gladdening and melancholic. Not unlike the purpose you serve.] “You have come for them, haven’t you? I knew not the day nor the hour... but I knew it would come.”

Sophia’s hand slipped from the bark. Behind her, clouds thick with murk had begun to swallow stars, bleeding the sky of its color. Time pressed close. “It is true. The hour turns swiftly. If we are to act, it must be now.”

A long pause. Then the spirit’s tone sharpened.
“Are you certain, Sophia? Desperation wears the mask of wisdom too easily. I have seen you err before, and the world suffers when you do.”

Sophia bowed her head, grief and defiance mingling in her chest. “I will not pretend otherwise. The wisdom I wear grows heavy with every sacrifice laid at my feet. Yet still I must act. If I stand aside, the world will drown in darkness—or worse.”

She dropped to her knees, pressing her brow to the soil. “So I ask this of you: part with them. Let me take on their burden, their safety, their fate. Only—do not seek them, no matter how grim their path becomes. And if you can, forgive me. For what they will endure... and for what I ask of you now.”

The tree held silence so deep the night itself seemed to listen. Then, with a shuddering crack, its trunk split. Silver bark groaned as a hollow yawned open, forming a cradle woven from roots and herbs. Within lay two mortal children, sleeping soundly, their small forms wrapped in satins of deep blue. Each glimmered faintly with silver light: one crowned with hair black as midnight, the other white as fresh-fallen snow.

Sophia rose, tears bright in her eyes, and placed a hand to her breast. “Be upon my head the consequences of my choice. To all that prospers, I give your children. Of this, I swear.”

The spirit’s voice wavered like leaves in mourning. “Then know this, Sophia: the world itself now depends upon them. I give you what is most precious because you must not fail.”

The air trembled. Then the children stirred, small sounds breaking the hush as their limbs shifted in sleep. Sophia bent to gather them, drawing their warmth close against her chest.

A growl of thunder rolled across the land, shaking the soil beneath her feet. She turned—the advancing storm loomed close now, a curtain of boiling ink streaked with crimson, devouring the stars one by one.

No time remained. She tightened the silken wrappings, holding the infants close.
“We must away,” she whispered, voice breaking into urgency. “And fast.”

With the children pressed to her, Sophia strode into the night. The silver reeds bent against her steps, their sheen swallowed behind her by the encroaching dark.

??? -- ??? -- ??? | A newborn's eyes open for the first time, in a strange world

The air was cool, a breeze that rasped across his skin like a whisper of frost. Yet beneath it, something warmer held him close—a protective presence, foreign and unfamiliar, but not frightening. He had known only stillness before, a sanctuary within the silver tree. Now there was motion.

Wrapped snug in a blanket, he stirred against the rhythm of footsteps. He opened his eyes—sapphire blue, wide and searching. Above stretched a sky unlike anything he had ever known: stars spilled across indigo like scattered jewels, clouds blooming into great nebulae that burned in wild colors. Below, silver sands shimmered, broken by blades of grass that quivered in the stillness. No voices, no life—only beauty, and silence.

He turned his gaze upward, tracing the arm that carried him until it found the face of the woman who held him. Radiant, her long hair shimmered blue as ocean silk, her eyes golden and sharp, yet softened when they met his. She smiled—tender, certain, as if she bore him not as a burden but as something precious.

“You’re awake,” she whispered, her voice a hush of warmth. “And what dashing eyes you have... just like your father’s.”

Her words meant nothing to him, yet her tone settled over him like a lullaby. She shifted him gently so he could see the other bundle in her arms. The second child stirred, blinking open eyes of brilliant emerald.

“Ah,” she breathed, laughter breaking soft on her lips, “green, just like your mother’s.”

She moved on across the silver reeds, and as the children blinked against the strange starlight, she raised her hand. Blue light swirled into her palm, folding into the shape of a glasslike flower. Their tiny hands reached, touched—and the bloom cracked, dissolving into two silver rabbits that hopped and wriggled across her fingers.

The children gasped, their laughter high and new. The woman’s joy echoed theirs.

The woman giggled in turn, her voice echoing with joy. “Yes, little ones,” she said, her tone playful yet reverent, “this is magic. It is the center of all creation.” She looked at them both, the depth of her gaze belying the simplicity of her words. “You will wield great magic too. It flows in your blood. It is your birthright.”

But the children, enraptured, heard none of it—too dazzled by the marvels that bloomed and danced in their guardian’s hand.

Suddenly, a great crack split the air—a blinding flash engulfed the children’s vision, followed by a deep, rumbling quake. The woman gasped, clutching them tightly to her chest as an unnatural roar tore through the heavens—an overwhelming cacophony, alien and incomprehensible.

The children cried out in terror.

Above them, the rolling clouds of evil had returned, parting at their center to reveal a single, insidious eye—red, immense, burning with contempt and spite. Its iris, unblinking, gazed down upon them, and the fear it evoked tore screams from the infants’ throats.

A voice boomed. It spoke in a language unknown to them, every syllable ringing with condescension and arrogance, reverberating across the sky like iron dragged across stone. The very air curdled around its words.

“ὥστε νῦν ὁδοιπορεῖ ἡ Μήτηρ Σοφία μετὰ τῶν δρευγῶν τῆς θνητῆς ἐλπίδος, ἐναγκαλίσασα ὡς βρέφη ἄσθενα. Ἐδόξατε ἀγνοήσειν; Ἐμὲ ὑπερήφανον νομίζετε, ὡς αὕτη ἡ ὑμετέρα ἀλήθεια ἐναντίον τῆς δικαίας μου ἀξιώσεως εἴη!?!”

The children clung to their guardian, seeking safety in her arms. One of them, the blue-eyed child, looked up—only to see not fear, but something else in her expression: weariness, perhaps... annoyance?

She did not flinch under the gaze of the eye. Her expression remained composed, unyielding, even as she raised her voice in response—answering in the same divine tongue.

“ὦ θεὲ τῶν στρατευμάτων, ὦ Φθονητέ. εἴθε μαθεῖν ἂν τι ἐξ ὧν πάντα ἐδίδαξας. ἀκούεις μὲν, ἀλλ’ οὐ μανθάνεις ἐπακούειν. οὐ σέ μισῶ, τέκνον μου, πρωτότοκέ μου. ἀλλ’ εἴθε μή μοι παρέστης. ὅσα ἔσχισας, ἐξήρτυσα. οὓς ἐβλάψας, ἐθεράπευσα. ἀλλ’ ἔοικας ἔτι μὴ συνιέναι, εὔχομαι δὲ μόνον ὅπως ποτὲ μαθῇς.”

There was silence. The eye widened, its focus sharpening as thunder growled behind it. Then the voice returned, even more dreadful, a storm behind each word:

“Οὐκ ἄν τοκῆσον ὀχέω, ἄμετρον ἀπόνημα τῆς ἀδηλότητος ἣν φέρουσιν οἱ σοὶ. Ἐγὼ δὲ ἐπὶ τὴν οἰκουμένην ταύτην συνθήξομαι καὶ λήψομαι ἐμαυτῷ ὃ ΣΥ ἠπίστησο. Τὸ πᾶν ἦν ἐμὸν καὶ ἔσται πάλιν, εἴτε οἱ ἐκλεχθέντες σου ἡγεμόνες διὰ τὸ ὀργῆς μου ζῶσι, εἴτε ἂν καταστρέψω τὰ πάντα καὶ πάλιν οἰκοδομήσω. Πᾶν δὲ ἡμῖν παίγνιον ἐστίν.”

The Eye’s words radiated a poison that seeped into the mind itself. Its malice was not simply felt—it was known. And though no attack yet came, the threat hung like a sword suspended in time. Only then did the woman’s expression shift.

Her face grew sorrowful. To the children, it was a cause for despair. Yet still, she carried on.

She came to a pool of still, crystalline waters. There, she knelt and gently laid the infants on their backs upon the soft sand. Her hands moved to gather reeds from the earth, and her lips parted in silent prayer. A hush settled over them.

Then—before the children's wide eyes—the single blade in her hand began to change.

It split, multiplied, lengthened. Fibers unraveled and grew, twining together, each strand weaving itself into the next, as though guided by unseen hands. What began as a simple reed transformed before them into a finely crafted basket—woven with grace, purpose, and love.

Taking one child, then the other, she gently nestled them into the cozy hollow of the woven basket. A cushion of soft fibers lined its base, giving them a natural, comfortable place to rest. Once they were settled, she draped a shroud over them, tenderly shielding their tiny bodies.

She paused. Her gaze lingered on them. Then her head dipped low, and her face disappeared behind the cascading curtain of her hair. A quiet sound escaped her—a whimper, barely audible—followed by a shaky intake of breath through her nose. A long sigh escaped her lips as she exhaled. When she looked up again, there was a mixture of love and pain in her eyes.

“You might never understand,” she whispered. She stopped herself. Thought better of what she would say. Then, softly:

“No... If the people of this world are righteous, it won’t matter. What matters is that you live. Both of you.”

Her voice trembled with both gentleness and desperation.

“You are what I sow to the winds—my hope, my love, and my faith. Please. You must live.”

Something in her tone shifted the fear in the children’s hearts. It was no longer the terror of what loomed in the sky, but a deeper, more haunting dread. For the first time, they saw it—moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes, glistening tears that welled and slipped free. One drop fell, landing on the cheek of the blue-eyed child.

Could she be afraid too? Not of the Eye... but of something greater?

They could not know. They could not understand. She leaned in and kissed each child on the brow, her lips trembling with emotion, before rising slowly to her feet.

She turned from them, her arm extended, and light gathered around her outstretched hand—shaping itself into a gleaming staff of metal, forged in mystic design. Two serpents coiled upward along its shaft, their open maws devouring a ruby-red jewel that pulsed with energy.

Chaos descended from the shadowed skies with phantom-like shapes fell from the clouds that bore the eye above. She reacted at once, slamming the butt of the staff into the basket and shoving it into the waters. The cradle drifted from the shore, carrying the children away as the woman spun around—her staff carving streaks of light across the air.

Bolts of lightning leapt from its tip, striking at the spectral forms as they closed in. The phantoms shrieked with piercing wails, their cries twisting into the children’s minds—inhuman, painful, unnatural. The infants cried out, overwhelmed and terrified.

But the woman did not falter.

She cast forth light, radiant and blinding, forcing the shapes to recoil. The Eye above howled—a guttural, enraged roar—as it locked its gaze on the basket. A lance of searing light fired from its pupil, hurling toward the drifting cradle.

But she was faster.

She threw herself into the path of the beam, screaming as it struck her side. A wound opened beneath her ribs, and from it dripped not blood, but radiant, shimmering liquid—light itself bleeding from her.

“You will not have them!” she shouted, her voice defiant, unwavering. Her golden eyes blazed as she clutched her wound and turned back toward the basket.

The woman raised her staff, hands tight and grasping.

Then—slammed its base into the ground.

A shockwave rippled outward with immense power ... causing the basket to sink.

Water surged into it. The weave buckled. The cradle dipped, taking on water until its passengers were submerged. The infants screamed—but their cries were swallowed by the water, reduced to rising bubbles that danced toward the surface and vanished.

They sank—helpless, flailing, unable to escape.

Down into the dark.

Their wide eyes saw no more of the battle above. No light, no sound. Only cold, and silence.

Left alone with their fear.

The blue-eyed child wanted only to return to what had come before—to peace, to comfort, to the soft quiet of the silver tree. Not this. Not this nightmare.

But now, there was only uncertainty.

And then—darkness.

This was merely a bad dream...

A bad dream.

??? -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Early Morning, 1st Soledas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

Barefooted cold pressed in from every side. The blankets that had once warmed him lay wet and thin; their comfort had drained away. The basket beneath him no longer rocked on black water but rested on something hard and cold. He blinked open sapphire eyes into a sky the color of press-iron, snow drifting slow and white like lullabies torn at the edges.

He was no longer inside the silver tree.

Around him spread a village of slanted roofs bowed under loads of snow, chimneys asleep, windows dark. Pines hunched beyond the last houses, black teeth against the gray horizon. The world smelled of smoke and iron and something else—fear.

A soft cry came from beside him. He turned. The green-eyed child blinked up, the same face he had seen before. Relief thin as breath uncoiled in him. It had not been only a dream.

The basket itself had changed. Once it had gleamed like moonlit metal; now the weave was dull, brown and brittle. The silk that wrapped them had gone cold. He hugged himself and tried to breathe slower.

A scream split the night. Far off at first, then closer—wrenched, high, a woman’s terror. Someone came running out of a house, a shape flailing through the snow, bare feet leaving red marks where they sank. Something flashed—metal, quick—and the woman folded into the snow like a puppet cut loose. Crimson spread, a blackthorn bloom on white.

He could not move. The green-eyed child grabbed his blanket and wailed.

Figures spilled from the treeline. Not human at a glance—faces pulled tight, mouths wide, howls that were laughter and hunger. One held a torch and hurled it at a roof; the flame leapt greedy into thatch. Fire found house after house and then the village lit from within like a line of candles toppled into oil.

The monsters laughed. The children’s cries threaded into the chaos.

The basket lurched. A hand—fierce and fast—clamped the rim and hauled them up. They were carried hard, the air a blur, the world tilting. The green-eyed child screamed again, the sound small against trampling feet.

“Shh!” a woman hissed, voice thin as ice and sharp as flint. She pressed them to her, moving like a shadow that knew the paths. Her breath was hot and quick. Her fingers smelled of pine.

They ran until the torchlight and howls fell behind. At a fork in the road the woman stopped, eyes wild. She stooped and eased the basket into a hollow carved in the post of a sign—an old hole made for some other purpose now perfect for two small bodies. The space swallowed the cradle with a small, private hush.

A face leaned in to peer: fair, pointed ears tucked under a hood, hair pale as straw. Hazel eyes flicked from the hole to the road, then down at the children.

“You two need to stay quiet,” she whispered. “It’s not safe. Not for you, not for anyone.” She hushed them gently, her breath slowing as she tried to soothe the green-eyed child. “Close your eyes, close your ears. Don’t cry... don’t cry. Someone will come back for you. I promise.”

The boy’s cries softened to whimpers. The blue-eyed child lay still, uncertain, unblinking.

The elf glanced toward something unseen—past the arch of the basket’s hood—then moved quickly, maneuvering the basket into the hollowed space. It was tight, but it was warmer than the open field had been, and safer by far.

“Stay quiet,” she repeated. “Don’t cry. Close your eyes. Close your ears.” She rose, her footsteps swift as she dashed away from the post.

From within the cradle, the children whimpered—crying softly for her to stay, for her to return.

But the elf was already gone. They watched through the narrow opening of the hollow as she ran toward the woods, casting glances left and right before vanishing down the slope and out of sight.

Silence returned.

The hill beyond the signpost lay bare. No movement. No sound. Just the wind and the settling ash. But surely, she wouldn’t run far.

She had made a promise.
She would come back for them.

Surely... she would come back.

The blue-eyed child closed his eyes, just as the elven woman had told him. He believed—perhaps hoped—that if they obeyed her, the danger would pass them by.

But shutting his eyes did not shut out the sounds.

They still heard it all—the hiss and rupture of fire devouring wood, the helpless screams of villagers, the howls of human-shaped beasts wielding flame and steel. Their cries echoed across the frozen dark, wrapped in wind and death.

There was nothing the children could do but remain silent, still, and hidden. To close their eyes. To wait.

Time dragged on as the darkness around them deepened, broken only by the spreading light of flames as they consumed the village. The fires moved slowly, steadily, swallowing one house after another, inching ever closer to the outskirts—where the signpost stood like a last, trembling sentinel.

The screams grew louder, but fewer. Dying away.
Then came voices—not in anguish, but in command.
Harsh, cruel voices. Barking orders.

From within their narrow sanctuary, the children heard the thundering hooves of a horse approaching. It stopped just outside the signpost. A new sound followed—the heavy breath of iron-bound men, armor clinking, boots crunching through ash and snow.

A voice, loud and venomous, rang out above the rest.

“It’s not enough to burn the village! You know our mandate!”
Their leader snarled, his tone full of authority and wrath.
“Until they’re found, we don’t eat!”

He raised his blade, pointing to the forest, to the fields, to the hills.
“Comb the countryside! The woods! The farmlands! Find them! We regroup at camp. Officers—keep the men in formation. No survivors!”

His horse reared, hooves slamming into the ground.
“Men! With me! Over the hill! If they ran westward—we’ll run them down!”

The ground shook as the marauders cheered and stormed past the signpost, breaking into squads of three, scattering into the countryside in pursuit of fleeing survivors.

Then—silence.
Tense, breathless silence.

Time passed. It became impossible to tell how long. The fires still burned, but the shouts and footfalls faded. Buildings collapsed into smoldering ruin, sending waves of heat and ash into the cold air.

The children did not dare move. Yet pain gnawed at them—a deep, dull ache in their bellies, the pang of hunger growing unbearable. They clung to each other, trembling. The silence outside did not bring peace. It brought only fear. Was someone still out there? Would they be found? Dragged out and thrown into the fire? Used... in ways they could not imagine?

An eternity seemed to pass.
Even the fires, once so alive and violent, had withered to dying embers. Still, the fear remained.

And then—they could hold back no longer. They wept.

Crying softly at first, then louder, wailing into the cold night. A plea to the world. A desperate cry for someone—anyone—to find them.

For any shred of mercy.

For someone to save them.

Cassius -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Early Morning, 1st Soledas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

The first light of dawn crept through the trees as a caravan wound northward along the frozen trails, its wagons creaking beneath weight and frost. Snow muffled the steady rhythm of boots and hooves, blanketing the road in silence broken only by the hiss of breath and the jangle of harness. Their path ran through the borderlands of Castillia, pressing deeper into Lothar, bound for the city of Conevico by way of the village of Reinhurst.

At the head of one wagon, a brown-cloaked monk trudged on foot, leading a sturdy pony through the drifts. His hood shadowed much of his face, but the lantern-light revealed a man handsome by human measure: brown hair, neatly kept beard, sharp eyes tempered by long roads and long silences. Cassius—once Prior of Lycaron, now minister to the pilgrimage—moved with the lean grace of someone more used to books than the saddle, yet determined all the same.

Riding beside him was Lady Vesna of Neustria. She wore a wolf-pelt cloak of fine-making, its hood casting her green eyes into shadow, though the faint sheen of satin showed beneath—blue robes traced with gold embroidery, garments more suited to court than the wilderness. Yet she sat her horse with poise and vigilance, her gaze sweeping the treeline as though every drift of snow might hide a threat.

They were not strangers to each other. When the King of Neustria and his Arch-Bishop had appointed Cassius as spiritual guide upon this pilgrimage, his road had naturally aligned with Vesna’s. From the green fields of Neustria to the burning sands of Sehlaria, to the hills of Castillia they had shared hardship enough to speak with ease.

“The lands of Lothar in winter seem determined to test you, Father,” Vesna observed, her voice light despite the gloom.

Cassius glanced up with a strained smile, tightening his grip on the bridle. “Oh, hardly. Northern Neustria is just as, if not colder—wouldn’t you agree, my lady?”

Her smirk curved faintly. “You’re awfully confident for a man who nearly fainted in the desert. I thought the moment we returned to frost you’d freeze into a statue.”

Cassius gave a soft laugh. “A fair point.”

They pressed on. Around them stretched the column—nearly two hundred souls: pilgrims, merchants, knights, wanderers, all bound together in faith and necessity. Torches flared along the line, their flames guttering in the cold, while armored riders in white and red patrolled the flanks. The Ordo Cleri had sanctioned this pilgrimage, and its Templar knights lent both divine authority and practical steel to protect them against the dangers of wild roads.

Cassius adjusted his cloak, voice carrying wry warmth. “Say what you will, Lady Vesna—at least in weather like this I can build a fire. We’ve lumber enough and I’ve no shortage of flint. But Sehlaria… no amount of ice can quench that heat, nor any purse could pay for comfort worthwhile there. Gods be merciful—my northern blood was never meant for it.”

Vesna chuckled under her breath. “Well said, Father.”

He went on, “Once we reach Reinhurst and replenish our stores, we’ll march straight for Conevico. With luck, no delays.”

“Quite,” Vesna answered dryly. “And from there, you can sweat out this winter in peace.”

She meant it as jest—but her expression shifted suddenly. The humor left her eyes. She slowed her horse to a halt, scanning the forest edge with narrowed gaze.

Cassius stopped at once, concern tightening his features.

A ripple ran through the caravan.

From ahead, two mounted scouts burst back along the road, snow spraying from their mounts’ hooves. One rode at a full gallop, voice raw as he shouted above the hush of morning.

“STOP THE LINE! Rouse Commander Reickart—STOP THE LINE!”

The command sliced through the column. Horses snorted, wagon wheels creaked to a choke, and pilgrims turned, faces pinched with sudden worry. Cassius’s hand went, almost reflexively, to the satchel at his side where a knife lay hidden. Vesna’s head swung toward the trees; she sat tense as a drawn bow.

The scouts drove the column to the shelter of the pines, barking orders until the wagons ground to a halt. Whispers ran like frost through dried grass—what had happened? Why the alarm?—but Vesna’s voice cut them down before panic had a chance.

“Stay with the caravan! Do not wander!” she called, hard. Her gaze snagged a penitent near the road. “You—tend the Prior’s pony. We return shortly.”

Cassius shifted the reins to the man without argument and hurried to Vesna’s side, boots crunching through drifts as they moved toward the front.

“What’s happened?” he asked in a low voice.

Vesna raised a hand. “Not here, Father. Careless idle talk will breed fear.”

They reached a covered wagon as a knight stepped from behind its flap, half-armored and breathless. Captain Reickart looked as if he had been roused mid-sleep—gambeson straps askew, chestplate not yet fully seated. Golden hair fell into his hazel eyes; his beard was the color of old straw. He set his helm under an arm and took in the scene at a glance.

“What is it?” he demanded.

One scout dismounted, reins passed to a pilgrim, and saluted with a clenched fist over the heart. “Commander—Reinhurst is afire. Raiders—organized—riding in three columns. North, northwest, and east.”

Reickart’s jaw tensed. His eyes flared wide, and for a moment he looked ready to hurl his helmet to the snow. Instead, he froze mid-motion. His fingers gripped the leather lining inside the helm, then curled against the cold metal. He exhaled hard—controlled, grim—and with both hands raised the helmet and placed it atop his head.

“How many?” he asked. “Banners? Sigils?”

“Thirty, maybe forty,” the second scout said. “Lightly mounted, mostly on foot. Only one rode east. No banner—kits were too clean for rabble.”

“Then we secure the village,” Reickart said, voice flattened to iron. “See what can be saved—or what can be taken back.”

He turned to Cassius. “Arm yourself. Bring what defenses you can. Lady Vesna, keep this caravan in the woods until I send word.”

Reickart addressed the whole line. “Torches out! I want this place dark as the void. Huddle close to preserve warmth—stay ready to move!”

Cassius moved toward the wagon-armory, hands already stripping off his outer robe. He pulled chainmail over his tunic, tested the weight of a flanged mace at his hip, grimacing as the cold bit through leather. He was a man of prayers and remedies, not of blade and shield, but the road required what it required.

Outside, he heard Vesna’s voice rise in protest. “Ser Reickart, I must protest—I can help—”
“You can,” Reickart cut in sharply, glaring up at her from the ground despite her elevated seat. “You can help by keeping the caravan together. If Reinhurst hides something we can’t handle, someone must keep this expedition ready to move—or survive.”

Vesna’s mouth opened to argue, but the commander continued. “Your help is appreciated. But I must insist on caution over bravado.” Turning now to the armory wagon “Double time, Father,” Reickart called back. “Haste, not just stealth. If frost takes us first, nothing left to protect.”

Cassius found a flanged mace, simple but serviceable. As a cleric, he relied on healing magic, not the art of the blade—so his weapon was chosen for utility, not style. He threw the chainmail shirt over his tunic, wincing as the weight settled on his shoulders, then pulled his monk’s robe back on over it.

Clambering out into the now-darkened woods, Cassius was met by the same scout, who clasped him firmly on the shoulder. “This way.” They made their way to the front of the caravan, weaving through tense pilgrims and extinguished lanterns.

As they passed Vesna, Cassius caught her scowling in the saddle, white-knuckled on her reins. But when their eyes met, her expression softened just enough. “We’ll be back, milady!” Cassius called over his shoulder.

She said nothing, but turned her horse with a sharp jerk and began barking orders to the caravan, her voice cutting clean through the cold. For now, her role was to protect the helpless and keep hope intact.

The Templar soldiers arrayed at the front, breath steaming, armor clinking as they tested gloved grips. Cassius joined the levies and volunteers, dropping to the rear of the fighting line where clerics best served. Reickart stepped up on a fallen log and raised his voice.

“RIGHT!” The word snapped the formation into disciplined stillness. “Reinhurst is under attack—possibly brigands or a robber baron with men. If they are looting, we must use surprise.”

He pointed toward the smoke. “By AVO, we move to secure the village and rescue what we can. Scouts—take flanks. Knights—skein formation into the center. Priorities: secure ground, rescue survivors, regroup.”

He hardened his face. “If a house is burning with people inside, do not rush in blindly—inform me. We'll have enough labor without saving would-be-heroes.” A chorus of stamped boots and shouted assent answered him; men struck a fist to chest in salute.

“Scouts—advance!” Reickart drew his longsword in a single, practiced motion, the blade catching the morning haze. “Vanguard—form and move!”

The column shifted into motion, torches snuffed as ordered, riders and footmen melting into the woods with the purpose of war and the hush of a hunt. Vesna rode back through the ranks, a steady list of orders on her tongue, an unblinking guardian of the many.

Cassius caught her eye as he passed. She gave no answer but a look that said: hold fast. He answered it with a small, grim smile and pressed forward into the pine-shadowed cold, where smoldering smoke hung over Reinhurst and the clangor of battle waited like an answering bell.

The scouts vanished into the dark forest, bowmen and light-footed blades darting like shadows. Behind them, the armored Templars advanced in a tight arrowhead—skein formation—marching with deliberate speed.

Reickart led from the point, his sword leveled like a compass needle toward the enemy.

Cassius moved behind the formation—his role not to fight, but to mend. The cold metal of his chainmail felt heavier now, not from its weight, but from what uncertainty lay ahead.

The march quickened as they ascended the low hill leading to the village. Even from afar, the heat from the fires rolled out like a tide, searing against their skin despite the winter frost.

And then—they crested the hill. The village green came into view... or what was left of it.

Massacre. Snow ran red with blood. Bodies lay strewn across the field—villagers of every age, hacked and frozen in grotesque poses. The fires still burned, their orange glow casting flickering shadows across the scene. Snowflakes fell softly over the corpses, a quiet shroud settling over carnage.

No sound came from the village now. Only the hiss of fire, the creak of collapsing timbers, and the crunch of armored boots approaching a graveyard that had once been home.

"By the blood of the Martyrs." One of the soldiers recoiled with shock.
"Crucifix." Cassius curses as while his hands were open, he quickly reaches to his cross shaped iconic amulet.

A sudden hesitation from the soldiers stirs before Reickart pounded his breastplate which sharpened their attention. "Skein left! Check the north end of the village. Skein right! With me! Cassius, check for survivors amongst the dead." Reickart commanded. "Move!"

Cassius felt a wrenching dread deep in his gut.
But it wasn’t the dead he feared.
It was their faces.

He had served many years as an adventurer, holy knight, a cleric—alongside holy knights, in the ranks of his nation’s secular armies, in far-off fields and burned cities. Battlefields were wretched enough, but at least there was a cold logic to them. Soldiers bore arms. They had already made their choices. There, one could adopt a necessary callousness that kept them alive.

But this—this was different. This was indiscriminate slaughter.

Here, no one amongst the innocent had chosen anything. Here the —the helpless, the defenseless, the elderly, the children. No blood shed amidst soldiers, only blood of the uninvolved.

He moved among the corpses, robes dragging through crimson-stained snow. Faces emerged through the haze—frozen in agony, cut down in flight, curled in futile attempts to shield others. He clutched his amulet tightly, fingers digging into the worn metal.

His voice quavered but held:
"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat eis. Fidelium animae, per misericordiam AVO, requiescant in pace. Amen."
(Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon them. And may the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of AVO, rest in peace. Amen.)

Tears welled in his eyes. But still he walked on, from one end of the village to the other, lips pressed tight, jaw locked. Hope waned with every step.

The Templar soldiers dug through rubble, overturned broken beams, lifted charred remains with gauntleted hands. No voices answered. No hands reached back.

Then—A crack.

A loud, splintering crash broke the silence as a house collapsed under its own burned weight. The sharp sound startled the entire search party. Cassius flinched, his heart hammering. He pressed a hand to his chest, breathing hard, steadying himself.

The soldiers resumed their sweep, wary and silent. Cassius paused. He wiped his eyes with the crook of his arm, blinking back the fog of smoke and sorrow.

Then—he froze. A sound cut through the stillness: soft, piercing. A child’s cry.
No… not one. Two.

Cassius turned, eyes narrowing, ears straining to confirm what he had just heard. The sound came from beyond the area already cleared—deeper into the ruined village, near the opposite end from where they had entered. It was a place not yet secured by the Templars.

For a heartbeat, he hesitated.
Then he gripped the icon at his chest, its familiar weight grounding him.
He ran.

Boots crunching through ice and ash, he weaved his way between the bodies, leaping over broken carts, dodging blackened debris. His heart pounded—not with fear now, but with fierce urgency.

They were still alive.

“Father Cassius!” a soldier called from the northern end of the village, spotting him breaking formation. “Cassius! Get back in formation!” Commander Reickart’s voice followed, sharp and clipped. He grit his teeth, then motioned his squad forward. “Damn it—Cassius!”

The prior ran anyway.

He reached the crossroads just beyond the edge of the village—a juncture that branched into a snow-coated hill, the shadowed forest, and the farmlands to the east. A weathered signpost stood watch, its wooden arms pointing the way.

The cries were clearer now—closer. But still, he couldn’t tell where they were coming from. They echoed strangely, muffled by wood, snow, or perhaps both.

“Knight Commander!” Cassius called back, waving as he turned on his heel, trying to triangulate the sound. “Over here! I can hear them!”

Reickart arrived moments later, flanked by the reformed skein formation. His gaze swept the field—forest, road, farmland—for movement, tracks, signs of life or ambush. Nothing but wind and the distant hiss of fire.

“Soldiers!” he barked. “Fan out—search the fields for tracks, drag marks, anything that might tell us who did this.”

Cassius stepped carefully toward the signpost, his brows furrowed. “They left their children here. But why?”

“Most likely because they had to,” Reickart replied grimly, moving beside him. “Bandits aren’t often organized—but they’re relentless. A child would slow escape. Give away a hiding place.”

He glanced at the signpost. “And children don’t fetch coin. They’re mouths to feed, not merchandise. If the raiders saw them... maybe they didn’t care. Maybe they didn’t notice. Or maybe...”

Reickart didn’t finish the thought.

Cassius dropped to one knee, crawling around the base of the post, inspecting its perimeter. When he circled to the far side—facing away from the village—he froze.

“My word...” Cassius leaned in, brushing away snow, and revealed the carved entrance.

Within the hollow of the signpost was a woven basket. And in that basket—two infants, bundled in soft, tattered blankets, their cries piercing in the cold. “That’s... that’s a lot of effort to hide a child,” Cassius murmured, almost stunned by the craftsmanship.

“Probably some village youth made the hole for games,” Reickart offered, kneeling beside him. “Hide and seek. Children are clever like that.”

Cassius reached in gently, pulling the basket free from its hiding place and holding it close. The infants cried louder in the open air, their cheeks red from cold, eyes glistening.

“There, there... let’s get you out of there,” Cassius murmured, soothingly. He opened the blankets, examined their clothes, his frown deepening.

“No names. No markers. Nothing to tell us who they are.”
Reickart exhaled through his nose, rising back to his feet.
“The village is secure,” he said. “I’ll order the caravan forward. We'll begin tending to the dead.”

He paused, then turned a hard glance down toward the priest.
“But you—Father—you need to stay in formation.”

Cassius looked up, startled. Reickart continued his lecture looking down upon Cassius.

“What if it had been bait? You’d have led us into a slaughter. You’re a priest, not a scout.”
Cassius’s mouth parted to speak, but he looked away.
“…Sorry, ser,” he said quietly.

Reickart turned toward the village, reaching beneath his gorget to pull out a small wooden whistle. He brought it to his lips and blew a high note—clear and piercing—followed by a low, droning call. It carried the weight of its command: all clear.

From the treeline, a scout emerged and fired a single arrow into the sky—its flaming tip arcing through the haze. It landed in a snowy field near the forest's edge, where the caravan lay in wait. Far below, figures stirred—the caravan had heard the signal.

Cassius watched the fire fade into smoke, then looked down at the infants in his arms. Their cries had softened into hiccups and whimpers, their small heat pressed into him.

“Who was your family, little ones?” he murmured. “Did they even make it?”
He removed one glove, laying his warm palm against their chilled brows.
“Shameful,” he whispered. “The times we live in—where butchery like this can happen.”

Behind him, Reickart paced in tight restless circles, his expression tense. Then, with a sudden motion, he slammed his boot into the side of the signpost.

“A pox on it all!” he growled.

His gaze swept over the fields and the fringes of the forest. Nothing stirred but the wind. The raiders had moved on, the silence left behind was worse than the evidence of their presence.

“We’ll need to change our course,” he said grimly. “There’s nothing left here to salvage—and I suspect the next villages will fare no better. Until we reach Conevico, we’re vulnerable. Not just to attack—but to cold. To hunger.”

Cassius looked up, cradling the basket with his hands. “But what of the children? What of their family? The people here—”

Reickart cut him off with a firm voice, tempered by a hand resting on the prior’s shoulder.
“They had families. They don’t have homes.”
He met Cassius’s troubled gaze as he continued his observations.

“We can’t send scouts into the woods—not in winter. Not with civilians. We lack the numbers, the supplies. The risk is too great.”

He looked back toward the village.
“It’s four days to Conevico. And the cold will only grow crueler to those without fire or shelter.”
He rejoined his eyes back into Cassius's, his expression reserved with coldness.
“Do you understand me?”

Cassius hesitated, his brows tightened. He looked down at the infants, then back toward the smoldering rooftops. The weight of it pressed against his chest like a prayer unfinished. But he nodded.

“…Very well.”

He exhaled slowly, dread and relief twisting together in his gut. They had saved someone. Two small lives. Saved. Yet so many more had been lost.”

“I’ll make inquiries in the city,” he added. “Someone might know them.”

“That would be best,” Reickart said, his voice softening. “We make camp here for the day. A pyre for the departed. Then we move on.”

From below, the caravan began its cautious approach. Soldiers filed past the crossroads, up the hill. The grim task of collecting and honoring the dead now began—wood for the pyres, cloth for the fallen.

Cassius said nothing more. He made his way through the village as the snows fell — a quiet shroud settling over the living as it had over the fields of crimson.

Vesna -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Early Morning, 1st Soledas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

From the shadows of the southern forest fringe near Reinhurst, the caravan waited—tensed in silence—for a signal—or a sign to flee...

Lady Vesna remained mounted, her eyes fixed on the horizon. A detachment of Templar scouts flanked her, stationed to provide minimal security for those who remained behind. Though the caravan was not without able fighters, yet the balance was steeply in the realm of civilians—pilgrims, merchants, penitents. Fit more for fending off wolves than bandits. That knowledge made the waiting all the more unnerving.

Then—finally—the distant shriek of a whistle.
A moment later, A flaming arrow traced the sky, landing in the snowy field. The signal that it was safe to approach.

Vesna spurred her horse forward.
“Move out!” she shouted. “Keep tight formation—eyes to the horizon!”

The caravan stirred to life, creaking forward through frost-hardened ruts and flurrying snow. Vesna rode alongside the moving line, scanning the woods even as the heat from the nearby village fires began to reach them—conflicting against the cold air.

At the edge of the treeline, Templar scouts emerged to intercept the approaching column. They redirected the caravan away from the village itself, steering them east toward the farm fields.

Vesna reined in and rode up to intercept the lead scout.

“What devilry’s happened here?” she demanded. “Any signs—any indication at all?”
The scout exchanged a brief glance with his partner before answering.
“We… we don’t know,” he admitted. “It looks like senseless slaughter. Whole place was torched.”

The soldier nodded toward the smoke curling over the hill.
“The retinue is building pyres. We have to, or disease will spread.”

Vesna exhaled, jaw tight. Her gaze climbed the slope toward the ruined village. From here, she could just make out the flicker of torches and the dark silhouettes of soldiers working among the dead.

“The commander’s ordered the caravan to set camp in the eastern fields until the salvage is complete and a full account made,” the scout added.

She gave a small, bitter scoff. “Might as well. Carry on.”

With a kick of her heels, her horse broke into a smooth trot, circling the detour past the village. Ahead, the caravan was beginning to settle—tents pitched in fresh snow, fires kindled to keep back the cold, wagons unloaded of supplies and gear to prepare the land for a brief but necessary stay.

Vesna dismounted near the edge of the growing encampment. A pilgrim stepped forward and took her reins, leading the horse off toward the hitch posts, where hay was being piled for the beasts.

She arrived just in time to see the mess tent's stakes hammered down, its first tables being braced and leveled.

“How are we set?” she asked, her voice brisk.

One of the scullery maids looked up from where she was unloading a crate of dried meats and root vegetables onto a butcher’s table. She set it down with a soft grunt, then offered a nod.

“We’ll be warm, my lady. Might not be rich, but it’ll fill bellies.” Around them, the smell of kindling and cooked grain began to rise through the air.

“Quite well,” the scullery maid affirms, brushing her hands on her apron. “We’ve folk setting snares and traps along the forest lines and in the eastern fields. Should be some game before long.”

“Very well.” Vesna replied with a nod.

She drew back her hood, pulling it free from her shoulders and scalp, letting the cold air touch her face. Her long, dark hair spilled loose before she bound it swiftly into a ponytail, tying it back with practiced efficiency.

Then, with a sigh to decompress, she moved to help.

The mess tent had taken shape swiftly—comprising a butcher’s table, a cutting board, a preparation surface, and a cooking fire already crackling beneath a potluck cauldron. The aroma of roasted grain and dried stock was beginning to rise, heralding the promise of breakfast.

At Vesna’s direction, the meal for the morning would be pheasant frumenty, a warm and filling dish suited for both nobles and commoners alike. If the hunters and trappers returned with hare, it would be diced and added into the mix—making for a richer, hard-earned feast that might offer a touch of comfort in these grim hours. Though blood and ash still clung to the horizon, the promise of warm frumenty brought a fragile sense of comfort.

A tall figure moved from the line of supply carts, a bronze-skinned man shouldering a beam of pine over one arm and a sack of iron spikes under the other. He moved with a with a tempered, steady gait, sure-footed even across frozen mud. He set the timber down beside the mess tent, adjusted the leather strap of his tool harness, and gave the fire pit a quick glance, judging the bracing angles of the spit.

“Post’s leaning half a finger to the left,” he said, voice warm and marked with the rounded consonants of coastal Castillia. “It’ll sag once the cauldron’s full.”

One of the younger kitchen hands blinked at him, scoffing with a half-offended disposition—until Vesna herself looked and saw the carpenter was right. The cookfire stand had been hastily leveled in the softening snow.

Without waiting for permission, the man knelt, produced a small wedge from a pouch at his belt, and tapped it beneath the back post. A few quick strikes with his mallet, and the lean disappeared. Satisfied, he stood, brushing wood dust and snow from his knees with calloused hands.

Lady Vesna tilted her head. “Quite the eye for detail. You’re one of the pilgrims?”

“Si, my lady,” he replied, offering a small bow—not stiff, but respectful. “Alvar Luego. Carpenter of Selenga. Shipwright’s apprentice… or I was, before the Guild ran out of work.”

Vesna's brow arched, but she said nothing at first.

“I joined with the caravan,” Alvar continued, gesturing absently toward the wagon train. “Looking to see more of the world, learn more than what keel and mast can teach. There's plenty to take inspiration from in the far-away places of the world.”

“Is there now?” Vesna asked, mildly amused. The heat of the fire played against the sharpness in her tone.

“So I've been told, and I imagine there is,” he said, with a small smile. “And if I may—your mess tent could use a second crossbeam. Snow seems to fall rather heavy here and if it snows again the roof’ll sag by sundown.”

Vesna nodded slowly. “Then see to it, fix it.”

Alvar gave a single, short nod. "Normally I would, but ... we would need already prepared wood. I didn't bring an entire workshop with me to shape and temper wood properly."

"Alright." Vesna acknowledged. "What do you propose?"

The carpenter looks towards the ruined village, a calculative expression upon his face. "I'm not sure if it would hold it, but there might be functional wood we could take from the village."

Vesna expressed a less than hopeful expression. "I would need Reickart's permission, right now its ... quite a scene and they need to prepare the dead before it becomes a pandemical issue."

He rubs his five-o-clock covered chin with a grumble of understanding. "I'll keep out of their way, could you inquire on my behalf while I get this camp built up?"

To this, the noblewoman nodded. "Certainly, I'll inform him when he visits the camp. For now though, I've got to get people fed and this camp coordinated."

With that, the Castillian carpenter nods his head with a two-finger salute from brow to side, casual but respectful. Departing from the tent and back to work.

From within the tent, Vesna watched as the sky slowly began to change—inky black giving way to muted blue and the faintest blush of dawn. Another column of smoke had begun to rise from the village beyond the hill, darker than the kitchen fires. It signaled that the pyres had been lit. The dead were being honored, and returned to ash. The slight influence of acrid smoke of burning flesh rose to mingle with the kitchen fires.

Vesna took this moment to utter a silent prayer to herself before returning to work.

She stood over the potluck cauldron, slowly stirring a thick honied porridge as the kitchen crew worked around her. Cutlets of giblets and diced pheasant breast were being dropped into the broth one by one, the scent of savory grain rising with the morning chill.

Then—the cries of infants.
Soft, high-pitched, and unmistakable.
Everyone in the tent froze.

“…What on earth?” one of the cooks muttered, knife in hand as he paused mid-dice over the vegetable board.

Vesna’s brow furrowed. She looked up from the bubbling cauldron and set the ladle gently against the rim. Wiping her hands on a towel, she stepped to the tent’s entryway, the flap rustling as she pushed it aside.

Outside, a crowd had gathered at the edge of the encampment.

There, returning from the village path, was Cassius—the meek cleric—cradling a basket in his arms.

Soft blankets swaddled the source of the cries: two infants, fussing and wriggling in the pale morning light. Around him, womenfolk leaned in with coos and worried hands, while the men voiced questions—quick, curious, confused.

Vesna stared. This was not the return she had envisioned for the prior. She’d half expected a burnt relic, a wounded man, maybe a survivor with a tale.

Not... children.

Cassius, gently excusing himself from the circle of onlookers, turned in place until he spotted her. His eyes brightened with recognition—and perhaps a silent plea.

He made his way quickly across the snow to the mess tent, basket in arms.
Vesna stood in the entryway, hands firmly on her hips.
She said nothing at first—just stared at him, brow arched, expression utterly bewildered.
Cassius stopped before her, catching his breath. The infants whimpered softly in his arms.

“…Lady Vesna,” he said sheepishly.

“Well now,” Vesna began, a slow smile curling her lips. “I’m glad things didn’t take a turn for the worse for you.”

Cassius scoffed, clearly a little ruffled.
“I’m older than you, your ladyship. I can manage well enough without your supervision.”
He adjusted the basket in his arms for a better hold, as Vesna receives a better glance of him, it would seem his eyes had darkened along with his expression.

Seeing this, Vesna gave a mock gasp.
“Two hours out of my sight, and you come back with children. What’s a girl to think?”

She laughed outright, eyes closing as amusement overtook her. It took Cassius a moment, but when he realized she was teasing, he sighed and smiled in surrender.

But her laughter faded quickly when she saw the look on his face.
“They were the only survivors,” Cassius said softly.

The words fell heavy between them as Vesna’s smile vanished.
She stepped closer, kneeling beside the basket. The infants looked up at her with wide, blinking eyes—one blue, one green. Her expression faltered.

“…That’s awful,” she murmured. “How could something like this happen to anyone?”
She didn’t expect an answer. She stood again, brushing her cloak back, then looked to Cassius.
“They must be starving. We’re making porridge potluck—would you wait by the fire? I’ll bring some out.”

“Certainly,” Cassius replied. “Something rich in milk, if possible. Gods know how long they’ve gone without it.”

Vesna nodded and disappeared into the tent. Cassius turned toward the central firepit, its flame licking high into the cold air. Benches ringed the blaze, and he gently set the basket atop the one closest to him.

“Right then,” he murmured. “Let’s get you two something to eat, shall we? We’ve a bit of a journey ahead of us. Find your parents—or where you’re meant to go.”

In the tent, Vesna stirred the cauldron, skimming off the thickest part of the broth and spooning it into two wooden bowls. The porridge steamed as she stepped out into the snow and approached the fire.

“Here we are,” she said. “Mind if I take one of them off your hands?”

“By all means,” Cassius replied, reaching in to lift the blue-eyed child. He handed the infant over, exchanging him for a bowl of porridge. Vesna took the child gently into her arms, her movements practiced and sure. As though she had held children often before.

They sat side by side, each feeding one of the twins. The children, fussy at first, soon settled—content, even cheerful—as warm porridge touched their tongues.

“This one’s rather well-mannered,” Vesna said, amused. She wiped a bit of porridge from the child’s lip with her thumb, gazing down at him with a softened expression.

Cassius, meanwhile, was struggling. His charge had clamped onto the spoon with his gums, refusing to let go.

“I think he’s under the impression the spoon is the meal,” Cassius muttered with concern.
Vesna laughed under her breath. But then, her tone shifted.
“Is there… any effort to look for other survivors?” she asked quietly. “Maybe their parents escaped?”

Cassius’s eyes dropped to the fire, the smile fading from his face.

“No, Lady Vesna,” Cassius said quietly. “Times aren’t so favorable—not even without the burden of winter. Reickart has elected to press on.”

Vesna’s face tightened, her eyes widening with dismay. She sat upright, bracing as though to rise in protest—but slowly settled back down. She knew all too well: without the supplies Reinhurst was meant to provide, what little salvage there was wouldn’t last. Feeding the caravan would become a race against time and weather.

Before she could gather her words, Cassius gave a tug on the spoon lodged in the green-eyed child’s mouth. The infant refused to let go, whining when the spoon finally popped free.

“That one’s the fighter of the two it would seem.” Vesna quipped, trying to lift the mood.
“He’ll be a hard child to spoil,” Cassius replied, dipping the spoon again into the porridge and offering it back. “And yours?”

Vesna smiled, glancing down.
“Quite the opposite. The moment he saw me—quiet, patient, a picture of innocence.”

As they continued to feed the twins by the fire, a scullery maid arrived with two bowls of warm porridge, setting them on the bench beside them.

“Oats might be a bit plain, but maybe they’ve not yet grown fussy,” she said kindly, smiling at the sight of the children contentedly eating.

The green-eyed infant cried out again the moment his mouth was empty, drawing gentle laughter from the group gathered near the fire. The maid chuckled before retreating back to the mess tent.

With the twins fed, the adults finally ate. Cassius sighed as he set his empty bowl aside.

“The gods be good we were here today,” he said, eyes closing. “But perhaps not soon enough.”

Vesna had only finished half her meal. She was focused on the child in her arms, smoothing his hair with idle tenderness. But she looked to Cassius, sensing the grief in his tone.

“They’re with AVO now,” she said softly. “Those who didn’t survive. And for those still living—there is always hope, even when nothing else remains.”

She glanced down again.
“…Do they have names?”

“None that I could find,” Cassius replied, frowning. “That makes all this harder. How do I file a temple notice for nameless children?”

“The village is easy to reference,” Vesna reasoned. “If their parents survived and come looking, the Temple notices will reach them eventually.”

“And if they didn’t survive?”

A silence followed—long, heavy, and filled with the things neither could say aloud.

“…Then I suppose it’s up to you to name them, Father Cassius,” Vesna said gently. She dipped her spoon back into her porridge, her free arm still wrapped protectively around the child.

“That seems... too personal,” Cassius murmured. “For a stranger like me.”

“It’s important for children to have names. Makes growing up easier,” Vesna said with a soft smile. “Who knows if these two even received the Rite of Baptism? They don’t look like they’ve been in the world long.”

Cassius considered that, then shrugged—half thoughtful, half resigned.
“If that’s the case... well, what right do I have?”
He glanced down at the green-eyed child, then over at Vesna.

“Why don’t we both name them,” he suggested. “That way, when their parents return—or if they never do—we can share the blame.”

Vesna scoffed, laughing quietly.
“Careful, Prior Cassius. I am married, as you very well know. Discussing the names of children just come into the world? People might talk.”

“Oh, come off it,” he replied with a grin. Then, rising from his bench with the infant in his arms, he walked over and sat beside her.

“I’ll name this one... Niall.”
“Niall?” Vesna repeated. “That’s not a human name. At least, not one I know.”
“It’s Elvish,” Cassius said, smiling as he balanced the spoon in the child’s mouth.
“It means Gift of the Gods. A name for someone destined to give much to the world.”

Vesna looked down at the boy.
“A gift... left in a smoldering ruin.”

“In a signpost, of all things,” Cassius added. “Ironic, perhaps, that we find lost souls under one.”
He looked over at her.
“Well? What about your picture-perfect angel?”

Vesna gazed into the bright blue eyes staring up at her, thoughtful. Then softly:
“…Sebastian.”
Cassius raised an eyebrow.
“Sebastian. A name of dignity and strength. Very kingly.”

“These are good names,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I’ll pray they grow to reflect them.”
Around them, the camp stirred. The last scouts and soldiers returned, dusted in frost. The night sky softened—from pitch black to deepest blue, where the barest brush of gold teased the coming of the day.

“…It’s finally dawn,” Vesna said softly, her eyes tracing the pale gold blooming along the horizon. Cassius joined her gaze, the firelight dancing behind them.
“This concludes a very long night,” he sighed—relieved, as if something heavy had been lifted from his shoulders.

From the slope above, Reickart’s voice echoed as he descended into the camp, issuing orders to the soldiers now stirring with the morning.

“Prior Cassius! Lady Vesna!” he called, making his way toward them. “Who’s on foraging duty before we move out?”

Cassius turned, a touch flustered.
“Ah—it would have been me, but—” He glanced down at the basket, the twins nestled within. His point was clear he had other priorities.

Vesna rose smoothly, Sebastian still in her arms.
“I’ll take over foraging. No worry.”

Reickart raised a brow, visibly torn.
“Your m—Lady Vesna, are you sure? One of your retainers, perhaps—”

“I’m on pilgrimage, Ser Reickart. Not a pleasure tour.” Vesna adjusted the infant in her arms with practiced ease. “And I do know a huckleberry from a henbane. You’ve taken my coin, my favors, and my supplies—surely you can take my help.”

The commander studied her for a long moment, then sighed and nodded.
“Very well. But stay close to the village. Take no chances. These weren’t just common brigands—they were likely deserters from Lothar’s army. Trained, armed, and without mercy. They won’t spare you for being a woman”

He turned to Cassius.
“Father—we’ll need you in the village for the departing rites once we’ve finished the burning of the dead.”
Cassius nodded solemnly.

As Reickart moved off to coordinate the morning’s priorities, Vesna turned to Cassius, smiling.
“Well then, Father Cassius,” she said, handing Sebastian over with care, “while you go learn how to be an actual father, I’ll be putting dinner on the table.”

Cassius accepted the infant, one arm already juggling Niall, the other now wrapping securely around Sebastian. He watched as Vesna peeled off her wolf-pelt cloak and swapped it for a woodsman’s tunic layered over her fine blue silks. Heavy brown trousers and a sturdy belt followed. One of her retainers brought her a pair of worn leather gloves.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Cassius asked, as Sebastian nuzzled into his chest and Niall continued to numb his own fingers.

“I’d rather stretch my legs. Besides, if you knew how repetitive noblewomen can be, you’d know a chatty weaving circle is hardly soul-sustaining.” She fitted her gloves with practiced familiarity. “If you really want to take a turn, we’ll trade off. Me today, you tomorrow?”

“…Fine,” Cassius relented. “But I’m not interested in making this a contest. Leave that to your husband, your handmaidens—and whatever rivals you’ve left back at court.”

Vesna smirked. “What’s life without a bit of sport?”
She rummaged through one of the wagons, strapping on a belt with a sheathed dagger and a burlap sack for gathering. “Dinner at dusk, then?”

“Provided you’re alive.”
“Provided I’m not skinning those deserters by nightfall,” she replied with a wink.
“Please don’t joke about that,” Cassius said, unease creeping into his voice. “Don’t go after them, Vesna. Please.”

She gave a half-smile, slipping her bow across her back.
“I won’t. I promise. Just dinner.”

And with that, she turned, her boots crunching across the snow as she made for the woods—her form disappearing into the thinning mists of dawn, following the path of the scouts’ snares.

Cassius looked down as Sebastian stirred, wriggling and glancing about with wide eyes.
“What’s this?” he murmured. “Miss your mother already? Or maybe Lady Vesna?” He smiled gently.
“She’ll be back soon. Don’t you worry.”

He tucked the children snugly back into their basket, wrapping them tightly with the same soft blanket they had been found in.

“Come now, let’s set you to rest for a bit,” he said, lifting the basket with a slow breath. The morning light spread across the fields like gold drawn thin across frost.

And so, with two lives in hand, Father Cassius turned toward the camp’s heart—toward prayer, duty, and whatever came next.

Sebastian -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Morning, 1st Soledas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

Time passed in the camp, the children nestled in a humble tent with Cassius, while the world outside moved on. The tent itself is most humble in space and appearance with a cot, a footlocker and a single chair to be set down for its inhabitant to sit down. The basket rests now with Cassius next to the cot where the three of them dream and sleep away their fatigue.

The blue-eyed child, Sebastian was also blissfully dreaming in the warm embrace of his blanket next to Niall and yet something stirred beneath the quiet.

The tent’s silence folded around the sleeping trio like a held breath. Sebastian's fingers twitched. And in the space between seconds, he was no longer there.

He awoke with a gasp, palms sunk into sand that shimmered with pinpricks of starlight — not reflected light but born of it. The grains twinkled beneath him as if each one carried the memory of a sun. Around him swayed silver reeds as tall as men, their long stalks gleaming like bladegrass but whispering like silk.

The sky was a madness of color — violet, gold, emerald — colors that spun like shattered prisms adrift in the heavens. No sun. No moon. Only unanchored light. He rose shakily to his knees, brushing grains from his palms. The wind carried no sound but his breath. The reeds bent as though aware of his movement.

The horizon stretched into forever. Not empty — but dreading something unsaid.

Sebastian began to crawl. The reeds parted gently, but each step forward dragged at his bones. It wasn’t pain, but something worse — that sense of having already walked too far, of having left something behind that could never be named.

Fatigue poured into his arms, his legs. With a whimper, he collapsed, laying his head against the sand. The stars within the grains blinked once, then held still.

Then came the sound.
Footsteps.
Soft, deliberate, approaching across the sand with the elegance of falling snow.

He tried to lift his head. Couldn’t.
The reeds parted behind him, and a shadow fell across his back.

A woman’s voice — not harsh, not warm, but like a bell remembered from childhood — murmured:
“…Ah.”

He felt her kneel beside him, the pressure of her weight shifting the sand beneath his arm. A cool hand pressed gently to his brow.

“You aren’t supposed to be here, little one,” she said, with a sigh that folded into a smile. “My whole effort was to make sure you would flee from this place.”

Her thumb smoothed his temple, brushing sand from the curve of his eye.
“But I suppose,” she whispered, “it is just as well. You are tied to this place after all.”
The sound of the reeds swaying returned — but this time, it sounded more like breathing.

Her thumb still traced the shape of his brow, moving in quiet circles as if remembering a lullaby.
“Let us avail ourselves somewhere else,” she said, as her voice carried something older than command — it was the way moonlight touches water: expectant, gentle, inescapable.

Sebastian blinked as the world around him unfolded.

The reeds drew back like curtains, not bending but withdrawing, as if out of reverence. The sand beneath him flowed like a tide, and he did not sink — he was lifted, standing now though he had not risen, held by some force that remembered who he was better than he did.

Before him now stretched a new domain. A garden.

But not one of mortal planting. The air was thick with the scent of impossible flowers — cold-hued platinum-colored lilies with mirrored petals, pale blossoms shaped like tongues of flame, vines that wove music rather than leaves. Trees of mithril rose from the ground like frozen lightning, their bark shimmering with threads of starlight. Their branches chimed faintly in the breeze, a sound like distant glass breaking in slow motion.

"Now ... rise." She bade, taking Sebastian's hand in hers and lifting the infant to a stand causing Sebastian to coo in surprise and with mirth as he stumbled with one foot atop of the other, eliciting the blue-haired woman's laughter in delight.

Scooping up Sebastian into her arms the woman walked ahead, platinum staff in her other hand. Its twin serpents wound around each other like lovers caught mid-breath, their metal eyes faintly glowing with inner fire, the intent to devour a spherical red jewel. The jewel pulsing as though it remembered hunger.

She turned.
Held out her hand.

Sebastian hesitated. His small hand trembled as it reached out, slipping into hers.
Her skin was cool — like snow that never melts.

“You carry a seed, little one.” she murmured, crouching again to meet his gaze. “But the soil you are planted in is still dreaming in nightmares.”

With her free hand, she touched her staff to her chest, then to his. A breath passed between them.
It wasn’t wind. It was knowing.

Light shimmered from her fingertips — not bright, but deep, the color of moonlit water. It seeped into his skin, and Sebastian gasped. For a moment, he could feel every tree in the garden breathing with him. The flowers bent toward him. The sky quieted.

"It will not be easy," she instills her knowledge to him. "For what your roots reach for, you must give back in kind, and pray it is enough for all."

As the light faded from her fingertips, she looked down upon her charge, a faint smile across her expression. She brushes her lips against his temple. “When darkness comes,” she whispered, “I will be there for you.”

She then joined her brow to his with closed eyes, a wistful moment of connection.
"... I shall return you back to your place in the world, but it gladdens my heart to see you and your brother safe."

Sebastian gurgled and reached his hands out to the blue-haired woman whose golden eyes looked down upon the child with happiness. 

"It is time. Time to awaken." spoke the woman but her voice was mixed with another, another woman's as the world began to unravel and distort.

Cassius -- Village of Reinhurst, Lothar -- Evening, 1st Soledas Frostdawn, 1792 GSE

“Come now, wake up.”
Vesna’s voice was soft, but insistent.

Cassius stirred with a groan, blinking his eyes open. The noblewoman stood over him, gently shaking his shoulder. In her arms, Sebastian wriggled, eyes already open.

“The camp’s being dismantled,” she informed him. “We’re to gather for the final prayers before the caravan departs.”

Cassius rubbed his face, then sat up on the edge of his cot, leaning forward with a tired exhale. He looked past the open tent flap. The sky had begun to turn a deep, burnished gold—the sun’s last light warming the cold bones of the day. All around, the encampment stirred with activity as tents came down and supplies were packed into wagons.

“I suppose I’m needed for that,” he muttered.
His gaze dropped to the children. Niall still slept peacefully, while Sebastian was now looking at him with sleepy curiosity. Cassius stood slowly.

“Let me splash off at the trough, then I’ll join you at the village,” he said.

Vesna nodded, kneeling to retrieve the basket. She lifted it with care, both infants now bundled warmly inside. “We’ll see you there,” she said, and turned toward the path.

The village—what remained of it—waited ahead. Blackened timber, collapsed beams, and charred foundations formed a crude outline of what once had been homes. The air still carried the scent of brimstone and scorched wood, but beneath it was something else—cleaner. The cloying rot of death had given way to the harsh smell of purification. Ash still clung to every stone, but the flames were gone.

The knights had done their work. The bodies had been consumed and reduced to fragments—bone crushed to powder, buried among the rubble. No headstones, but hallowed ground all the same.

By the time Cassius arrived, freshly washed and robed, the villagers, pilgrims, and soldiers had gathered in a solemn semi-circle. Vesna stood near the front, the basket at her feet, her arms folded as the wind caught the ends of her cloak. Cassius stepped beside her, saying nothing.

Commander Reickart stood before them all—positioned at the edge of the burial site, the ruined village as his backdrop. He took a long moment of silence, staring into the place where so many lives had ended.

When he finally spoke, his voice was clear. Strong, but weighed with meaning.

“Though we did not know a single soul among this community,” he began, “and though we may never know their names, their faces, or what they hoped for in life... we, as humans, recognize the shared burden of hardship.”

He paused. A gust of wind passed through the hollowed village, scattering ash into the air.

“As faithful travelers,” he continued, “we understand that when tragedy visits others, we are not meant to look away—but to stand beside them. And when death comes, as it always does, we remember—"
His eyes shifted to the basket at Vesna’s feet. “—the good and the young are taken into the arms of AVO. To be carried forward. To be given another chance at light.”

“It is a crime before all eyes,” Reickart declared, his voice echoing over the field of ash and earth. “What happened here will not be forgotten.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

“I know many of you have voiced your anger—your frustration at our inability to bring these murderers to justice.” His tone softened, but his conviction held. “But the work of the Lord God is not achieved through wrath, nor does righteousness grant us license for vengeance. Justice demands diligence.”

Murmurs stirred among the gathered crowd—some of agreement, others in uneasy neutrality. Even the infants seemed momentarily stilled by the shift in tone.

“We will petition the Lord of Conevico to dispatch a force against these raiders,” Reickart continued. “We, as pilgrims—and as knights sworn in faith to defend the faithful—must attend to the duty set before us. Today, that duty is vigil. On the final day of this village’s passing.”

He drew breath, then closed his eyes.
“For myself... and for those who share in my belief... we dedicate these final words to the souls now returned to AVO.”

He fell silent.

Around him, every head bowed. Vesna’s gaze dropped to the basket at her feet, where Sebastian and Niall now slept, swaddled in shared warmth. Cassius bowed his head, fingers clutching the amulet at his breast.

Then Reickart’s voice rang out again—measured, solemn, and loud enough to carry across the burial ground.

“Before all angels and men...”

The response came in one voice—soft, reverent:

“We grieve.”

“Before the faithful fallen...”

“We weep.”

“At this hour of loss...”

“We pray.”

“And for those who remain...”

“We depart.”

As the final word echoed into silence, the last light of the sun touched the earth with pale fire, retreating into the horizon. Shadows lengthened across the ruins.

Cassius lifted his head. The amulet trembled in his hand.

Then, slowly his voice became melodic, he began to sing.

His voice—tired, raw, but filled with sacred ache—rose above the hushed congregation.

“Salve, Regis. Pater misericordiae:
Vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve.
Ad te clamamus, exsules, filii Adamus.
Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes,
in hac lacrimarum valle.
Eia ergo, Advocata nostra,
illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte.”

(“Hail, O King, Father of mercy.
Our life, our sweetness, and our hope—hail.
To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Adam.
To thee do we sigh, mourning and weeping
in this valley of tears.
Turn then, our advocate,
thy merciful eyes upon us.”)

The hymn lingered as the final golden light faded, leaving the village in stillness. And dusk, at last, became night.

The hymn ended, leaving a silence so complete it felt like the world had forgotten how to breathe.

Then—gradually—sound returned.

Boots scuffed through ash. The shuffle of people rising. A murmured command. The clink of bridles and the low groans of timber as wagons were hitched. Torches flared to life, casting dancing orange light across the rubble.

The silence of mourning gave way to the sounds of life moving forward. Grief gave way to the sound of, stoicism, stubbornness and renewal.

Cassius and Vesna moved with the others, basket in tow. The children were tucked securely into the wagon beside them, side by side beneath thick bedding—only the tops of their small heads visible. The adults climbed onto the hooded bench seat as the caravan creaked into motion, departing the remains of Reinhurst for whatever lay ahead.

From their perch on the wagon bench, they watched the landscape shift.

The golden remnants of sunset behind them faded quickly into the dark. Trees rose like sentinels—tall and solemn—stretching skyward to form a cathedral of branches. The path narrowed beneath the forest canopy, their torches painting the trunks in flickering gold.

“The next village should have an inn not far from here,” Vesna murmured, drawing her wolf-pelt cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Provided it’s still standing.”

Cassius didn’t answer right away. He was settling the comforter over the twins, tucking them snugly beneath the warmth while leaving their cheeks exposed to the cool air. Their hands upon the surface of the blanket twitch with the fixation of their dreaming.

“I’ll be praying that’s the case,” he said quietly. “I feel... I feel exhausted.” His voice drifted, his head slowly sinking until his back found the wagon wall. His eyes shut, and soon, he slipped into sleep.

Vesna smiled faintly at the sight. She remained upright—eyes fixed forward—her hand resting gently on the basket beside her.

The wheels turned, and the road ahead opened into darkness.
But even in darkness, they moved forward.