The final hours before battle were a blur of preparation.
Each of the seven stood within the high-walled courtyard of the Order's armory, the afternoon sun falling in slanted beams through the narrow openings above.
The city beyond was restless, the pulse of thousands of lives beating in uneasy rhythm against the coming dark.
But here—
in this place—
there was only focus.
Only the act of arming for what was to come.
The Order's armorers worked with swift, efficient hands, fitting the new gear piece by piece.
Each set was crafted not simply for protection, but to match the bearer's role, skill, and soul.
Each piece whispered of lineage, of the strength of those who came before—and those who must rise again.
Maia was the first to be ready.
Her armor gleamed a soft, smoke-gray under the light—chainmail fine enough to move with her body, but dense enough to turn the bite of blade and claw.
Threaded through the weave were delicate strands of white—almost too faint to see unless the light caught them just right.
The mark of the Holy Mother.
A sign of her calling.
A sign of what she fought for.
Over the chainmail, she wore a sleeveless tabard of pale cloth, belted simply at the waist—a healer in form and spirit, but no less a warrior.
Maia flexed her arms, testing the fit, and smiled.
It fit perfectly.
Eno and Renn were next.
Their armor was different—sleek, minimal, designed for movement and silence.
Smoke-gray jackets reinforced with thin plates over the heart, the shoulders, the lower spine.
Soft, durable leather beneath, treated with magic to resist tearing and slow poison.
Their boots were light, near soundless.
Their gloves fitted to allow perfect release of bowstrings without hindrance.
From a distance, they would seem like shadows slipping between worlds.
And up close, they would strike before an enemy ever knew they were there.
Elise stepped forward next.
Her armor was a whisper against the air.
Black cloth, woven tight, clinging close to her frame.
Over it, thin plates of smoke-gray steel protected her vitals—heart, lungs, kidneys—designed to turn a dagger's thrust or the slash of a ghoul's claw.
It left her swift, deadly, unseen.
A viper in the dark.
A ghost with steel teeth.
The hood of her cloak fell low, shadowing her face, leaving only the glint of her eyes visible beneath.
Terron was last among them before Koda.
His armor was pure strength.
Heavy plate, smoke-gray, fitted to his massive frame with a kind of brutal elegance.
The chestplate alone could have served as a shield for a lesser man.
Reinforced gauntlets and greaves completed the ensemble, each piece etched with faint, protective runes.
When he moved, the ground seemed to shudder beneath him.
At his side hung a hammer thick as a man's thigh, the head carved from a single slab of rune-etched stone.
And then—
Koda.
The armor brought for him was not smoke-gray.
It was not merely protection.
It was a statement.
It was obsidian.
The armorers moved carefully, reverently, as they fitted it piece by piece onto his body.
The chestplate was sleek, form-fitting, black as starless midnight.
Around his shoulders, his forearms, and his lower legs, thicker plating had been set—shaped not to slow him, but to absorb the heaviest of blows.
Covering his joints was a thin mesh of woven black metal—fine as silk, strong as a titan's bones—allowing full, unrestricted movement without leaving him vulnerable.
No helmet was provided.
Only a hood, spun from the same flexible material, draped lightly across the back of his head and neck.
Enough to shield.
Not enough to hide.
When Koda finally stood fully armored, the courtyard seemed to draw in a collective breath.
He was a slayer made flesh.
A creature of speed and violence, sharpened by war, honed by loss, tempered by duty.
He rolled his shoulders once, testing the weight.
It moved with him like a second skin.
Ready.
Waiting.
The seven of them stood together, armored and armed, a wall against the dark.
A force unto themselves.
The final orders came quickly after.
Assignments locked into place.
Maia to the field hospitals—leading the healers, bolstering the wounded, holding the heart of the city together.
Eno and Renn to the eastern wall—scouts and sharpshooters, their eyes and arrows the city's first line of warning.
Elise beyond the perimeter—a ghost among the fields, eyes in the mist, the silent dagger in the night.
Torren at the front gate—an immovable shield where the blow would strike hardest.
And Koda.
Everywhere.
The generals' strategy centered around fixed positions.
Koda was the exception.
He was to patrol the walls, the weak points, the cracks where terror would leak in first.
A sword in flight.
A shield where the line buckled.
A fury where the dead pressed hardest.
As the sun began to dip toward the jagged horizon, painting the world in molten gold and bleeding crimson—
The city of Callestan braced itself.
And the seven champions of its last hope took their stations.
In the coming night, there would be no room for hesitation.
No time for second chances.
Only the clash of life against death.
Only the cold, hard choice to stand—or fall.
And Koda, cloaked in obsidian and armed with the memories of two thousand years of sacrifice—
Prepared to carve a path through the darkness.
Whatever it took.