Theron walked out of the killing field and back into the madness of his own army. The hallucinogenic spores were losing their potency, but the after-effects were a chaotic mess. Men were scattered through the valley, some babbling about the divine light they had witnessed, others weeping in confusion, their spiritual compass shattered. It was a flock without a shepherd, lost in a fog of their own making.
His second-in-command, Corian, had managed to rally a small, coherent group. Corian was a man carved from unwavering dogma, his faith as hard and sharp as obsidian. When he saw Theron approach, his face flooded with relief, quickly followed by suspicion.
"Theron! By the Sun, you are alive!" Corian rushed forward. "The demon... what tricks did it play? Did it wound you?" He scanned Theron for signs of corruption, his eyes narrowed, searching for any taint.
Theron looked at the man he had called friend and brother for twenty years. He saw not concern, but a doctrinal purity test. Corian was not worried about Theron, the man. He was worried about the sanctity of his superior's office.
"The entity... has withdrawn," Theron said, his voice measured, testing the waters. "It has shown me... things."
"Lies!" Corian spat, his hand reflexively going to the golden sunburst on his chest. "Its every breath is a heresy. We must cleanse ourselves, re-sanctify our arms, and press the attack. We have seen its cowardice. It relies on illusion and trickery!"
Theron held up a hand. "The illusions were a symptom, Corian. Not the disease. This power is... more complex than our scripture prepared us for."
Corian's eyes hardened. "Complex? There is no complexity in undeath and shadow. It is a filth to be burned away. You sound weary, Templar. The creature's whispers have clouded your spirit. We must pray." He was already shifting, subtly positioning himself not as a second, but as a spiritual corrective. As an inquisitor.
Theron saw his path clearly now. The Order was not a tool that could be re-calibrated. It was a weapon that only fired in one direction. To attempt to change it from within would be to declare himself a heretic and be consumed by its unthinking righteousness.
"You are right, Corian," Theron said, his voice taking on its old, familiar tone of command. "My will was tested. The taint of this place is strong. We must regroup. Tend to the men. We will make camp on higher ground, purge the lingering effects of these spores, and reassess our strategy at dawn."
Corian relaxed, hearing the strength return to his leader's voice. He believed he had steered Theron back to the true path. "As you command," he said, turning to shout orders.
Over the next few hours, Theron worked to restore order, but his true purpose was observation. He was sifting souls. He watched his men, listening to them, assessing them. Most, like Corian, saw the spores as a demonic trial they had failed. Their response was to retreat deeper into the comforting certainty of their dogma. They spoke of righteous vengeance and renewed purges. They were lost to him.
But there were a few others. He saw a young Templar named Valen sitting by himself, staring at a simple mossy rock with a troubled expression. Valen had been one of the first to succumb, seeing the rock as a holy relic. Theron approached him.
"The vision was strong?" Theron asked quietly.
Valen looked up, startled. "It... it felt more real than the stone itself, High Templar. And when it faded... I felt a loss. As if I had been shown a great beauty, only to have it snatched away. Does a demon... truly have the power to create such beauty?" The question was a dangerous whisper, a crack in the foundation of his faith.
"That," Theron said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "is a question only a man with true sight would dare to ask." He saw a flicker of understanding, a seed of doubt, in Valen's eyes. He had found one.
He found three others. An old quartermaster who had seen a vision of his long-dead wife, and questioned what evil could offer such a gentle, comforting lie. A quiet scout who confessed that the silence of the woods after the "angelic" visions faded felt more menacing than the forest itself ever had. And a scarred, veteran warrior who simply stated, "I fought the Bone-Witches of the Southern Wastes. Their magic smelled of rot and left a slime on your soul. This... this was different. Cleaner."
These four were the only ones. Four men in an army of over two hundred who had felt the dissonance, who possessed the courage to question a miracle that did not align with their scripture.
That night, as the camp slept fitfully, Theron summoned the four to his tent. He did not explain. He did not preach his new, heretical theory. He simply presented them with the core paradox.
"This Warden has saved the innocent. He has healed the sick. He has punished the greedy and the cruel. He has defended his land with terrifying, yet measured, force. His methods are anathema to us. But his results... his results are what our own god commands of us: the protection of life, the establishment of order. My brothers, I am adrift on a sea of contradiction. Help me find the shore."
He laid himself bare, not as their leader, but as a fellow seeker. He watched them argue, debate, their hushed voices a tiny island of doubt in an ocean of zealotry. They talked for hours, cycling through every possible explanation. By the time the first hint of dawn touched the sky, they had not reached a consensus. But they had all agreed on one, terrifying point: they could not, in good faith, continue this crusade without answers. Their war against the Warden was a war against an enigma, and to fight an enigma with blind faith was an act of supreme foolishness.
"What do we do, Templar?" Valen asked, his face etched with worry and a dawning loyalty to the man before him. "Corian is already planning the renewed assault. He will see any hesitation as a sign of corruption. He will declare us heretics."
"He will," Theron agreed calmly. He then stood and retrieved five simple, dark cloaks from his personal effects, the kind worn by simple pilgrims or spies. He handed one to each of them.
"Then we will not give him the chance," Theron said, his voice filled with a newfound, terrible peace. "Corian's war is with a demon of his own making. Our war... our war is with ignorance. We cannot find the truth at the head of an army. We must seek it as supplicants. Tonight, we do not march to battle. We desert. We abandon the Order of Sol and commit the greatest heresy of all."
He looked each of them in the eye, his gaze unwavering.
"We go to the Ashen King. Not as crusaders, but as petitioners. We will seek an audience. And we will ask him the question that now burns in all our hearts."
He paused, the unspoken question hanging in the tent. What are you?
They were no longer soldiers of the sun. They were five lone men, about to abandon everything they had ever known to seek answers from a monster, trusting only in the profound heresy that the truth he offered might be more holy than the lies they had been taught to believe.