(Chapter 19)
Eldhar stood near the center of the Purge Knights' camp, cloak brushing the dewy grass of early dawn. His posture was statuesque, the weight of command settling across broad shoulders like armor itself. Orders were issued in clipped tones, deliberate and steady, but his eyes betrayed the awareness that stillness could be just as dangerous as combat. Tension in the camp could coil like a spring, and he refused to let it snap unprepared.
The knights lingered on the cusp of action and repose. Their movements were purposeful yet measured—cleaning weapons, checking armor, patching minor wounds—but even in these small motions, the gravity of their duty hung like a shadow. Aven had delivered Eldhar's final report to the King of Ragnafiore days ago. Until word returned, there was nothing more to be done. Yet, Eldhar could not allow them to drift into idle uncertainty.
"Rest while you can," he instructed, voice calm but firm. "Eat, laugh, remember yourselves. Today, the battlefield waits, but so does your spirit."
A faint hum of compliance passed through the camp. Some knights found solace in mundane tasks: polishing helm crests, rolling clean bedding, adjusting straps. Others leaned against wooden posts, eyes closed, allowing the early sun to seep warmth into their chilled bones. Even the mist curling across the training ground seemed to pause, as if the very morning held its breath.
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Training Ground – A Lesson in Strength
Seraphine balanced awkwardly on the soft earth, wooden staff gripped with uncertain hands. Nilda circled her with the patient, watchful eyes of a mentor.
"Hold it higher," Nilda instructed, adjusting Seraphine's elbows. "Your arms are too stiff. Strength isn't just muscle—it's control. Stability. Foundation."
Seraphine's brow furrowed. "Like this?"
"Better. Feet grounded, shoulders relaxed. Pivot from the hips, not the wrists. Swing."
The staff arced, clumsy but purposeful. Seraphine nearly stumbled, cheeks flushing as she corrected herself. Nilda's lips curved faintly.
"Do you know how many times I tripped when I first held a sword?" she asked quietly.
Seraphine shook her head.
"Too many. Others laughed. But you… you don't stop. That's what matters."
A quiet ember of determination sparked within Seraphine. She bit her lip, then nodded, standing taller. For the first time, she believed she could become more than a sheltered noble—she could become a knight in her own right.
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Far Away – The Castle of Ragnafiore
The vaulted halls of Ragnafiore echoed with the distant clatter of armored guards and the rustle of silken banners. Aven knelt before King Almenac, the wax seal of his report catching the first light of stained-glass windows. His armor, though polished, bore scratches and dents from his journey. His jaw was set, his posture disciplined, but fatigue pressed deep into his bones.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice steady yet underscored with exhaustion. "This is the report of Commander Eldhar and the Purge Knights. The Trinity of the Abyss has moved again. They attempted to seize a forbidden tome and unleashed a wyvern upon Ethille. We prevailed, but their power grows."
King Almenac's eyes, sharp as obsidian, scanned the parchment. Lines etched from years of warfare and diplomacy cut across his brow. He lifted his gaze slowly.
"The time has come," he said gravely, voice filling the vast hall. "For years we prepared for shadows' return. Now, they stir. The Purge Knights… and this Hex Flame Swordsman… may be the key to survival."
Aven bowed, hiding the conflicted weight in his eyes. His duty to the crown was fulfilled, yet his personal path had shifted. Once the report was delivered, the path of his life as a knight, as a soldier, as a man bound by obligation, had diverged.
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Ethille – City Awakens
Back in the heart of Ethille, the Purge Knights' camp stirred as the first horns sounded from the city gates. The note rolled across cobblestones and rooftops, carrying with it the authority of royalty. Laughter, chatter, and sparring froze. Every knight's eyes turned toward the rising plume of banners beyond the city square.
Onlookers emerged from shuttered homes, merchants pausing mid-sale, children clinging to parents' skirts. Windows opened to frame faces lined with curiosity, awe, and a subtle hint of fear. The streets shimmered under morning light as torches flickered in rhythm with the royal procession. The scent of polished leather, horses, and fresh baked bread mingled in the air—a reminder that life persisted even amidst shadows of war.
The royal carriage advanced, lacquered black with gilded trim that gleamed in the morning sun. Mounted guards moved in perfect formation, halberds catching light like stars trapped in steel. People bowed low, some whispering prayers, others murmuring tales of Purge Knights and shadowed cults. Vendors halted, clattering trays and goods left forgotten, while children pressed close, wide-eyed, hands clutching tiny charms for luck.
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Knights' Vigil
Within the camp, the Purge Knights moved with disciplined efficiency. Rowan adjusted his gauntlets, inspecting minor scratches, while Thalia checked her quiver, arrows humming faintly with residual enchantment. Nilda scanned the city's edges, watchful for any sign of threat. Azre remained in silent meditation, the hum of her inner power barely perceptible, wings folded tight even in rest. Eldhar surveyed his knights with a careful, quiet pride, noting each movement, each breath, ensuring focus remained intact until the king's presence arrived.
"Stay alert," Eldhar murmured to no one in particular. "Even in peace, shadows listen. Even now, the enemy watches."
The tension, though subtle, coiled in the air like a living thing. Each knight moved, poised as if anticipating a strike that might never come, their discipline forged by countless battles.
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The King Arrives
Trumpets blared once more, sharp and commanding. The carriage stopped at the camp's edge. Polished boots hit the cobblestones in unison as soldiers formed a perimeter of perfection. The carriage doors swung open to reveal King Almenac, mantle crimson and sable, presence as heavy as the crown upon his brow. Lines of battles fought and statecraft etched his face, yet his eyes gleamed with keen intelligence.
Eldhar led the knights forward. Armor clattered as one, each step measured, each breath synchronized. He knelt, fist pressed to chestplate, the gravity of tradition wrapping around him. One by one, the Purge Knights followed.
"Rise," the king's voice cut through the still morning air. Steely, commanding, yet tempered with reason.
He wasted no words on ceremony.
"The cult of Trinity festers still. Reports confirm their movements in Arvalione's waters. This is no longer a threat to one kingdom—it is a tide seeking to drown all mankind."
Stewards stepped forward, bearing scrolls sealed with the blazing crest of Ragnafiore. Each knight received one, the parchment heavy with responsibility.
"With these seals," the king continued, "you may pass freely across borders. You are to root out the cult wherever it festers. But know this—my spies have unearthed troubling news. The cult does not act alone. A second figure, cloaked in shadow, commands a hidden faction. A hindrance born of secrecy and treachery. They work in concert with the cult, sowing discord where our blades cannot easily reach."
Unease rippled through the knights. Eyes met, brief glances weighted with worry.
"You will not only hunt the cult—you must drag the hidden hand, known only as the Apostle of Daath, into the light. Fail, and the tide will not stop at Ragnafiore's shores. It will sweep across every realm."
The king's gaze swept across each knight, cold and unwavering.
"Steel your hearts. What lies ahead is not conquest, but purgation."
Then, almost imperceptibly, the king's voice dropped lower. His hand trembled slightly as he drew forth a final sealed parchment, the wax unlike any royal crest the knights had ever seen.
"A name… found only once in the records of my spies. A name that should not exist…"
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The Weight of Ominous Knowledge
The Purge Knights exchanged glances, the weight of the task settling like a stone in their chests. Even seasoned warriors felt the magnitude of what awaited them.
Azre's eyes narrowed. "We've faced shadows before. But this… this is something else entirely."
Rowan clenched his sword, the leather hilt warm beneath his calloused hands. "Then we face it as we always do. Together."
Nilda placed a hand on Seraphine's shoulder, steadying the young knight. "Whatever comes… we survive. We fight. We endure."
And somewhere, unseen, beyond the city and the camp, the winds whispered of secrets yet to be revealed, of shadows old as the world, and of a war that would test not only steel, but hearts, minds, and the bonds of trust itself.
The golden morning of Ethille, bright and seemingly peaceful, carried with it the weight of impending darkness. The Purge Knights were ready—or at least, they would have to be.