Aegis

“Did you know each nation is different in the manner they utilize Creation? It’s fascinating, really—how one’s environment and cultural values can affect their power’s development. With the divinity’s aid, anyone can accomplish anything. The impossible becomes possible. No one is limited in their path, and yet time has proven that - when left alone - a child’s natural inclination will resemble those around them.

“Take the Polus for example. While their heritage of Wings is their most defining feature, the knights of the order tend to rely on invocations that manipulate the elements—the natural world. Lorelai calls upon the sun and moon; Annalay stirs nature’s wrath; Sarathiel clads himself in unbending steel. And in the same vein, the Templars are of similar ilk: poison, shadow, water, and so on. You understand, yes? They are staunch fundamentalists.

“But there is one Templar I am not familiar with. A mysterious figure, he is, for I have never once met him in person despite all my good-will visits to the capital. There are stories of course, the occasional rumor hastily whispered in a busy tavern, and while I am above such baseless chatter… if they are to be believed, then that man is very different from his fellows. And dangerous, oh yes. Very dangerous, for he is the leader of the Order of the High Seraph: Joshua Yahweh.”

- Arch Magus Faust, Ruler of the Augurium Thaumaturgy

———

Ascalon

Upon the final close of Lorelai’s reveal, a glorious festival engulfs the city for three long days, and so it persists for three long nights. It is not entirely brought by her hand; when sadness abates, one must shed tears of happiness in order to truly move on. Though, her presence is certainly no doubt one of the causes for their joy.

But the celebrations will not last forever. Eventually, normalcy will return, and the kingdom must be prepared for when the Caelum forces cease their passivity. The war shall continue as it always has, and so while the people revel and cheer outside, the occupants of the castle gather in the throne room to discuss the future.

“Everyone, I have called you here today for a matter of utmost importance,” Ascalon declares to the court. “We have just received information from those of the frontline concerning the empire’s movements. Chancellor Gadreel, would you please?”

“Certainly, my liege,” the elder says, and he takes to the stand with a belly noticeably more plump than the prior day. His face is flushed bright, grimacing from an evening of copious intoxication, and though his waddle is an interesting sight, he nonetheless settles in place and speaks with a clear vigor devoid of slurs. “Ever since the first withdrawal of those dastardly heathens, we have been maintaining ever a vigilant eye on their activities. The Templars and Sarathiel of the Steel have engaged in a few odd skirmishes, but nothing to the extent of what we have faced before: The border remains at an impasse. What is rather curious, however, is the absence of their commander: Libevich the Man-Slayer.”

The very mention of that monster’s name brings shudders to everyone in the room. Even Ascalon cannot prevent his leg from twitching in worry, for that woman is a catastrophe in every sense of the word: a living disaster, one who would not hesitate to destroy the world if it means satisfying her bloodlust.

So that beckons the question… why has she retreated?

“I imagine that crone of all people would be most against the Grand General’s command,” Ascalon utters.

“Indeed, the wicked creature knows naught but carnage and death. Which is why it is most suspicious when she vanished from the battlefield, and upon closer investigation, we have discovered that her forces have been redirected to the Arch Magus’s territory where Gravitas once was stationed.”

And thus is released to the world a collective sigh of relief. The Arch Magus is not one who is willing to involve his people in this war, but hesitation does not necessarily mean neutrality: Faust is a smart man, and an opportunity like this is one he will gladly take advantage of.

“I see. Yes, that is reasonable. Without the Immovable One’s command over gravity, it would be difficult to defend against the Meteor of Faust. Xeros has no choice but to thin his army’s ranks.”

“Ah, but that is not all, my liege,” Gadreel says with a twinkle in his eyes. “Libevich is not the only scourge who has bid departure. No, there is another, one who hathst hidden themself away in the capital of smog for many moons… until now.”

“… Impossible. Are you referring to?”

“Yes, The Grand General. Xeros is no longer on Caelum soil.”

An outburst of speculation and hectic ramblings drown the court as if almost by command, and officials from all sides direct a storm of questions at the Chancellor whilst leaving no room for him to reply. “How can this be?” one exclaims. “After all these years, only now he deigns to reveal himself?” shouts another. “This must be a ploy. He should be busier than ever with his commander’s death!” And so on, and so on again. The Chancellor almost explodes from rage, but thankfully Ascalon interjects before the mood worsens.

“Everyone, calm yourselves!” he declares with a bellow. “Please, save your questions until after the Chancellor is finished with his report. Is that understood?”

“Yes, your majesty,” they reply.

“Very well. You may continue, Gadreel.”

“Many thanks, my liege,” he says, turning his head to give a rather rude gesture to those in the back before returning with a scoff. “Eh-hem, as I was saying, The Grand General is no longer amongst his territory. He departed a week prior, upon the day Lorelai had returned to us, on a voyage to some manner of location in the east.”

“The east? How odd. Aside from the Augurium Thaumaturgy farther up north, therein lies nothing in that land but barren plains and—”

No, there is one nation out there—if it can even be called as such: a domain Ascalon has only heard of in books and passing records, one embroiled in a constant age of strife. That is, until ten years ago when a certain man rose to power and seized control over the wandering nomads of the Steppe. Not even his name is known, only a moniker. A title that evokes pause.

“The Overlord,” Ascalon grunts. “Xeros seeks to form an alliance with the Overlord.”

The King half expects for the court to erupt once again, but instead there is only silence. And not the silence that comes from fear or shock or even confusion; rather, they do not know what to think, for what the Polus grasps of the current situation in the Steppe can be summarized in one word: nothing. Whether it be about the nomads or the various tribes under that arid sky, none of them can be contacted. Any attempts from Polus in recent years have always resulted in the disappearance of their delegation.

Suffice to say, the Overlord does not welcome visitors.

“How trustworthy is this information?” Ascalon questions.

“Certain, my liege. Unearthed by Templar Joshua of the High Seraph, himself.”

“Really? That is comforting. I know none other who—”

“… Dirty sand-blood.”

Ascalon stops. The court officials gasp. The world in all its movement and sound and reality halts in a frozen moment of sheer, uncomfortable eternity. And as the King slowly turns his head towards the source of the interruption, a hot, boiling rage seethes from inside his chest. Pounding. Threatening to explode.

But he smothers it, that vile feeling in his throat, and he maintains his calm. Anger will serve him no good; however, that does not mean he will allow such slander to be spewed so freely.

“Name,” Ascalon says with a cold, jagged rumble.

“… Pontius Power, your majesty,” replies the offender, and Ascalon can see plainly the fright dripping from their brow. But there is no remorse in those eyes. No apology. They are only regretful of being caught.

“I know you. An elder of the conservative faction, am I correct?”

“Y-Yes.”

“I see. And do you know why you have been called?”

“B-But your grace, with all due respect to the Chancellor, can we truly trust the words of one who is not of Polus origin—”

“Joshua Yahweh was raised and trained in our fair kingdom. He has proven his worthiness, manifested the Seraph’s wings, and earned the qualifications to become a Templar. I have faith in his loyalty, no matter the place of his birth.”

“Still, he is of the desert folk—”

“Sir Pontius,” Ascalon thunders. “I know you have good intentions, that you only wish to be of aid, but I will not tolerate such disrespectful conduct towards one of our own. Prejudice has no clemency in our court, nor shall it be allowed to fester amongst our people. And whatever views you may hold, I only ask you refrain from speaking out. Am I clear?”

The elder appears to shrink into themselves as they mutter a weak, “yes, your majesty” before slithering back into the audience. Only when they disappear is Ascalon allowed to let out a quiet sigh of relief, but he cannot be fully at ease. The highborns have always held questionable beliefs, and it is inevitable for there to be some discourse, but the King is dumbfounded that they would spout such nonsense aloud before so many others.

It is truly astounding, their recklessness. Or perhaps boldness. Either result is lamentable, but unfortunately, now is not the time to address their behavior. It would be best to move on from the topic whilst the air is still amiable.

“Regardless of Joshua’s background,” Ascalon continues. “We must fully consider the possibility of a united front between the Grand General and the Overlord. I know not how Xeros has managed to contact the Steppe’s ruler, but the fact he only endeavors to do so now speaks of his desperation.

“Nox Caelum is currently shaken, but it will not be that way forever. If that man truly does succeed in fostering an alliance, then the war will only worsen with time, and not even the Arch Magus’s support shall be of much use. We must decide here on how best to cripple their forces.”

“Ah, but why must we merely cripple them, my liege?” Gadreel says with a tut and wag of his finger. “I do believe you remember mine previous proposal?”

“… To serve as the aggressors, ourselves.”

“Indeed. And I daresay there shall never be a moment more fortuitous than now to end this long, bitter war.”

“I understand, Gadreel. I do.” But, though Ascalon does not want to admit it, he is still fearful. Of the deaths that shall come with his decision. Of the consequences if they are to fail.

He remembers vividly the pain of losing Lorelai. The despair. The regret. But above all else, how helpless he had felt knowing there was naught he could do himself. There is no greater horror than watching one’s beloved suffer. And if their forces truly do move in earnest, then he has no doubt Lorelai would march alongside them. That is who she is: a hero resolved to endure the world’s weight. If she is to be lost a second time… Ascalon does not know if he will ever recover.

But, the mere thought of squandering their only chance over such a selfish reason puts shame to his very name. It is always about his own fears, his own personal desires, but that is not the way of a ruler. A King must do what is best for their people, and if he is to be complacent now, then failure is all that awaits no matter the outcome. Ascalon does not want to waste it: this sliver of hope.

From the very beginning, he should have had trust in his people. His knights. And in Lorelai—trust that no matter what may come, she will always return. Even amidst the darkest of hours, her promise remains unbroken, and so Ascalon will fulfill his own promise: to serve the people, and to bring about a tomorrow without worry.

No matter what they shall come to face, Polus will persevere. And Polus will prosper.

Thus is the King’s Decree.

“Chancellor,” Ascalon says, rising to his feet and glancing over all in the courtroom. “Send a missive to the frontlines. I command for Sarathiel and every last Templar to return to the capital. We shall discuss our plan of attack once everyone has gathered.

“My liege? Does… does this mean?”

“Yes, my friend. No more deliberation. Let us end this tiresome war once and for all.”