Narrator: Faurgar

  Lying here in this sticky, enveloping darkness, I finally begin to understand why it all went to hell. We in Vellaris considered ourselves unsurpassed masters of intrigue, arrogantly believing we held all the strings. But we were merely throwing dice into the dust while Erthrusia was writing us into its prophecy.

  Now, as I piece together everything I know about the methods of the priests of Milather, the picture of that conversation forms in my mind. As an artist, I can almost smell that suffocating incense and see the sharp, cold light falling onto the mosaic floor of their Great Cathedral. This happened shortly before our squad left Caesarca...

  Sunlight struck the stained glass of the Temple of Milather so fiercely that the colors seemed alive. The glass shimmered with gold, scarlet, and deep azure, all converging at a single center—a massive triangle on the floor. The mosaic, inlaid with the rarest of stones, cost more than the annual budget of a mid-sized province.

  The air in the Great Hall was heavy with incense and… ozone. As if a lightning bolt had just been discharged beneath the high vaults, leaving behind the scent of a storm and a divine presence.

  Colonel Serge Aderius stood in the center of the cathedral without his helm. He held it under his arm like a common bucket. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face like an old map where someone had tried to carve the routes of all lost wars with a knife. He lowered his head not out of piety—it was the habit of an old dog. The less you catch the eyes of those who outrank you and are infinitely further from the real filth of the trenches, the longer you live.

  "The night is near," he said, addressing the mosaic beneath his feet. His voice echoed upward, lost in the ribs of the vaults. "And the omen is already on its way."

  The floor tiles trembled almost imperceptibly, like a distant tectonic shift. Aderius clenched his teeth. Every time the temple "breathed" like that, memories of screams and the scent of burning pine needles flooded his mind. Milather, Milather… sometimes the Colonel wished his god would visit those who pull his "will" out of blood and shit, just once, rather than the priests in their silks.

  Before him stood the High Priestess.

  White and gold robes, a gaze cold as polished silver. Her voice was soft, like a caring mother’s, but every phrase she uttered made one want to tuck their head into their shoulders.

  "To lose a soldier of your caliber in a routine raid… that is unpleasant, Serge," she said, not looking up from a scroll. "I counted on your flawlessness. Or did you decide you could afford to throw away the men of the Broken Wing?"

  Aderius remained silent. To justify himself before her was to give her another reason for a sermon. And the priestesses of Milather always had an eternity for those.

  "You have a new assignment, Colonel," the Priestess finally looked up. "A girl named Gellia Servatius. A warrior of Tyr. She is currently in Caesarca. You will find her and ensure she reaches the temple in the Forbidden Lands. Alive."

  Aderius blinked, his face twisting for a moment in confusion, as if he had spotted a completely redundant figure in the composition of a battle.

  "Forgive me, Mother," he said dryly. "Did I understand correctly? The elite of the Broken Wing is heading into the very backside of the world to… babysit a girl who was kicked out of her own Order?"

  She gave a nearly imperceptible smile.

  "She is not 'just a girl.' The Sword recognized her."

  The word "Sword" in her mouth sounded as if she were speaking of a living, hungry deity.

  "A sword chooses the one capable of wielding it," Aderius replied shortly. "I am capable."

  "You... serve," she corrected softly, her tone sharper than any dagger. "But she is chosen. Even a stubborn soldier like you should understand the difference. Or have you forgotten whose name is etched upon your shield?"

  He tightened his fingers on the cold metal of his helm. She was reminding him of what he once believed in—before the very order that burned his faith along with the residents of a certain forest village.

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  "She studied at the monastery we lost," the Priestess continued. "In the Library of the Word. Books burned there, but the Sword acknowledged her. I am simply telling you: it must be so. Your task is to bring her to the temple and ensure the artifact, if found, reaches Erthrusia. Not Trudius. And not even her personally. It must return home. Can you handle it?"

  "I can," he said. "Methods don't matter, correct?"

  "They matter, Serge. If you fail, I will not forgive. You have enough scars to understand the price of my wrath."

  Aderius found him in the training courtyard. The young Dragonborn stood at the targets, methodically, with a kind of fanatical precision, striking through sequences of blows. His plate armor shone as if he had just stepped out of a festive stained-glass window, not traveled the dusty high road. Khet-Vun’s gaze was direct and… provocatively clean for a city accustomed to hiding its eyes.

  "Khet-Vun," Aderius barked.

  The Dragonborn turned and clicked his heels so earnestly that the metal of his greaves clanked.

  "Yes, Lord Colonel! It is a great honor..."

  "Don't rush with the honors," Aderius cut him off, his face like stone. "Work first. Then we’ll decide if it was an honor or a punishment."

  Khet-Vun swallowed, but an enthusiastic smile still twitched at the corners of his scaled lips.

  "I was told..." he faltered, trying to steady his breath. "I tried to join the squad heading north. To Gellia Servatius. They didn't take me. Priorin said... 'not on the list'."

  Aдерius grunted. The pressure point had been found and opened in a single move.

  "Didn't make the Leonin's squad, then," he clarified. "Does it sting?"

  "I wanted to prove I was worthy," the Dragonborn answered honestly, a genuine bitterness in his voice. "That my grandmother’s name isn't all I have. That I am... a warrior in my own right."

  Before Aderius stood not just a paladin, but a boy crushed by the weight of his own lineage. The Colonel nodded to himself. Deep in his burnt-out soul, a fleeting sympathy stirred—he knew too well what it was like to wear a father’s name like shackles.

  "Fine," Aderius said. "I have another trial for you. Much worse than a tournament."

  Khet-Vun snapped to attention. "I am listening."

  "Rules first," the Colonel said calmly, stepping closer. "On my assignments, you answer with three words: 'Yes,' 'No,' or 'Understood.' Leave everything else for confession at the altar. Understood?"

  "Understood."

  "Excellent. The task." Aderius lowered his voice to a whisper that drowned out the wind. "Priorin’s squad is staying in the city tonight. They have an item—a Key. A purple crystal. Your goal is to retrieve it for one night."

  Khet-Vun frowned, the crest on his head twitching. "That is... that is theft, Lord Colonel."

  "No," Aderius corrected in a glacial tone. "It is a test. We will return the item. And the crystal. You will leave a temple coin with our mark in its place. Technically, it is a 'borrowing for a vigilance test.' We need to know how reliable they are. And how good you are."

  Khet-Vun clenched his fists. "The Code forbids... we do not take what belongs to others without leave."

  Aderius sighed. He turned toward the targets. "Tell me, boy. If you remove a friend’s armor at night to check if a strap has rotted... have you stolen it?"

  "No," Khet-Vun answered, confused. "I... I checked it."

  "Exactly," the Colonel nodded. "We are going into the Forbidden Lands. People there die not from pretty thrusts, but because someone didn't lock the bolt. I want to know how good these 'heroes' are in the field, not on the arena sand. No blood. No property damage. Everything returns to the owners."

  Inside Khet-Vun, a battle raged. The grandson of the High Priestess, the Code, the Word… it all argued with the pragmatism of a man he respected for his scars, not his titles.

  "It still feels like dishonor," he exhaled.

  "Honor," Aderius looked him straight in the eyes, "is when your people return from a campaign alive. Even if it meant doing unpleasant things to get there. If you can't accept that—speak now. I’ll find another. I don't have time to heal your soul; I have time to give you a chance to enter the Broken Wing."

  Silence fell. Khet-Vun struggled, but the thirst to prove his usefulness had already won.

  "With conditions," he said quietly. "If I see a risk to their lives, I will stop the assignment."

  Aderius gave a nearly imperceptible smile—like a crack in stone. "Now you’re talking like a soldier. Accepted."

  He began ticking off fingers: "No casualties. No damage. No witnesses. The marked coin as a sign. Duration—one night. Return with the Key, and you’re in my line. Have I made myself clear?"

  "Understood, Colonel."

  "One more thing. On this journey, you are not Gellia’s savior. You are her shadow. When told 'heel,' you heel. Got it?"

  "Yes, Colonel."

  When Aderius left, Khet-Vun stood in the empty courtyard for a long time. In his palm lay the heavy temple coin—cold and silent. His upbringing screamed of sin, but his heart beat in the rhythm of a new, terrifying destiny.

  He clenched his fist and headed out of the training grounds. He needed to find the squad's trail. And he knew where to start. If you want to find shadows in this city, you go where they gather—The Crooked Dagger. Even if your shining plate armor will stick in their throats like a bone.

  A Lesson in Manipulation. I love writing scenes where an experienced mentor breaks down a novice's moral walls. Aderius doesn't tell Khet-Vun to "be a criminal." He reframes theft as a "vigilance test." It’s a classic military gaslighting move that works perfectly on a young man desperate to prove his worth.

  "Purple Key" as the central MacGuffin of the first arc. We see that multiple factions are watching this item, and the squad is much less secure than they think. Khet-Vun’s entry into the story via The Crooked Dagger marks the moment where his shining silver armor first meets the grime of the real world.

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