The low sun had long since dipped below the horizon, replaced by the pale light of a crescent moon, but the air above the eastern wall of Eldergrove still tasted of ozone and death. Perceival's arms ached, his muscles screaming in protest with every swing of his sword. For hours, he and Alaric had stood shoulder to shoulder on the ramparts, a defiant line of light against an endless tide of darkness. The zombies, their groans a constant, terrible chorus, had scrambled over the rubble of the broken wall, a living, dead torrent intent on overwhelming the defenders.
Each time a zombie's decaying hand found purchase on the stone, Perceival met it with the brilliant flash of his blade. He had chanted the simple cleansing prayers Alaric had taught him, and with each utterance, the golden runes on his sword pulsed with a divine energy. The holy magic wasn't an explosion of power, but a precise, focused force. When his blade cleaved a zombie, the wound didn't bleed; it sizzled, the necrotic flesh dissolving in a puff of acrid smoke. He moved with a rhythm he hadn't known he possessed—parry, slash, pivot, repeat. His fear had been replaced by a primal, focused intensity. He was no longer a trainee; he was a shield.
Beside him, Alaric fought with the effortless grace of a master. His silver hair, now matted with sweat and grime, flew as he spun, his own sword a blur of motion. He didn't use the flashy magic of Perceival's blade; instead, he imbued his strikes with a raw, kinetic energy of the Light, a pure force of will that sent zombies flying back from the wall. The two of them, the seasoned veteran and the green trainee, formed an unbreakable barrier.
Below, on the blood-soaked ground near the eastern gate, the battle was a different beast entirely. Perceival could just make out the solitary figure of Geoffrey Tinndale, a black-armored juggernaut standing his ground. Where Perceival's attacks were precise and surgical, Geoffrey's were a display of brutal, uncompromising power.
His greatsword, a colossal slab of dark steel, wasn't used for finesse. It was used to cleave. With each swing, a line of zombies would be cut in half, the force of his blow sending them flying in pieces. He wasn't defending the gate so much as he was creating a field of annihilation around it. The dead simply did not get past him. He moved with a cold, ruthless efficiency, a machine of vengeance. There was no chant, no prayer, just the rhythmic, heavy clank of his armor and the gruesome slice of his blade.
As the hours bled into one another, the initial roar of the horde slowly dwindled. The tide of the dead was finally receding, leaving behind a field of smoking corpses and scattered limbs. The battle was over.
Perceival leaned against the wall, his chest heaving, his sword still clutched in a numb hand. His fine tunic was torn and stained with dark ichor, and a gash on his forearm throbbed with a dull pain, but he was alive. He had held the line.
Alaric placed a hand on his shoulder, his face grim but proud. "You did well, Perceival. You did very well."
Perceival simply nodded, too exhausted to speak. His hands trembled, not with fear, but with the aftershocks of a fight that had tested every fiber of his being. As the first light of dawn began to paint the eastern sky, a new kind of chaos began. Geoffrey Tinndale, his armor dented but unbroken, barked orders to the weary guards and builders.
"Get to it!" he bellowed, his voice raw. "Repair this wall now! We don't wait for another horde to come knocking! Move! Every hour you waste is a hundred lives lost!"
His authority was absolute and unquestioned. He oversaw the repairs for a moment, then turned and walked away, a silent, terrifying silhouette against the rising sun. There were no congratulations, no words of praise. For him, the battle was simply a problem to be solved, and the repairs were the next logical step.
Later that morning, after Perceival had washed the grime of battle from his face and had his wound tended, Alaric found him in the courtyard. The city was still buzzing with nervous energy, but the immediate threat was gone.
"Come," Alaric said, a flicker of a smile on his face. "You've earned a drink and a warm meal. And I believe you have some questions for me."
They walked through the now-bustling streets of Eldergrove to a small, unassuming pub named The Stumbling Gryphon. Inside, the atmosphere was one of quiet relief, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat and ale. They found a corner booth and ordered two large plates of stew and a flagon of dark beer.
As they ate, the silence was comfortable and earned. Perceival finally broke it. "Brother Alaric," he began, "you said I had questions."
Alaric chuckled. "The look on your face on that wall. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking about the next step."
"Yes," Perceival said, placing his spoon down. "To become a full paladin. What does it take? Is it just more training?"
Alaric took a long sip of his beer, his gaze growing distant. "Becoming a paladin is a journey, Perceival, not a destination. You've already passed your trial of purity. The next step is the Trial of Courage and Conviction. It takes place beyond these walls."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "You will be given a mission to prove yourself. You must venture out into the wilds alone and hunt the source of the undead. You need to kill at least one hundred zombies. It is a test of your endurance, your skill, and your faith in the field. But more importantly, there is one final goal: you must find and kill a necromancer."
"A necromancer?" Perceival's eyes widened. He had heard of them only in hushed, fearful whispers—dark practitioners who could raise the dead.
"Yes," Alaric confirmed grimly. "They are the masters of the undead, the ones who give the hordes their unholy purpose. Killing one proves you can not only face the darkness, but extinguish its very source. Only then will you be considered for the rank of a full paladin."
Perceival's mind reeled. A hundred zombies was a terrifying prospect, but a necromancer? That was a whole new level of danger. A cold, determined fire began to burn in his belly.
"Who are the other paladins?" Perceival asked, his thoughts turning to the black-armored Geoffrey Tinndale. "I saw him today. He was… different from what I expected."
Alaric smiled sadly. "The Round Table is not a group of shining saints, Perceival. It is a collection of men and women who have fought the darkness in their own ways.
There are twelve of them, divided into the Low Seat and the High Seat. The ranks are determined by power and experience, from the Sixth Low Seat being the lowest, to the First High Seat being the highest. It is a long, arduous climb."
He paused, a flicker of pride and respect in his eyes. "You've already met the Sixth Low Seat, Geoffrey Tinndale—a bald man with scars on his face, wearing black armor and wielding a greatsword. He is a grim reminder of what happens when vengeance fuels the Light."
"Then comes the Fifth Low Seat, Ciel Derouge. He's the fire of the group—a red-haired man with fiery red eyes, dressed in full red armor. He wields a sword that burns with a passion as hot as his temper. A bit of a hot-head, but a fierce defender."
"The Fourth Low Seat is Gerald Graystolk. A master tactician, always seeing ten steps ahead. He wields a morning star and his armor is a deep, forest green. His strength is his intellect."
"The Third Low Seat is Bors Burnelay. He is an immovable object, a shield of the Church. His armor is heavy and his shield is massive, and he is a master of defensive holy magic."
"The Second Low Seat is Galahad Mortymare. He's what most people imagine when they think of a paladin—a handsome, chivalrous knight with a strong sense of justice. His armor is silver, and he wields a longsword with incredible skill. He is the people's champion."
"And finally, the strongest of the Low Seat, the First Low Seat is Mortred." Alaric's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's an anomaly. A silent killer. He has black hair, blue eyes, and wears an assassin's hood and mask. He wields a pair of daggers, not a sword. His holy magic is used to create shadows and illusions to hide, then strike from the dark. He is the blade in the night for the Church."
Perceival listened, mesmerized, the romantic notion of a paladin being a singular type of hero shattering into a kaleidoscope of diverse, and sometimes frightening, individuals.
"And then there are the High Seats," Alaric continued, "the greatest of the great."
"The Sixth High Seat is Tristan Frostrane. His power is in the cold—he can summon ice and freezing winds with his holy magic. He's often seen as cold and distant, but his power is immense."
"The Fifth High Seat is Lionel Braveheart. He is the opposite of Tristan—a roaring fire on the battlefield. His armor is bronze and he fights with a battle axe, using holy magic to bolster his own strength and inspire his allies."
"The Fourth High Seat is Gareth Egremont. He is the healer of the Round Table. His holy magic is centered on restoration and protection, and his presence can turn the tide of a battle without him ever drawing a weapon."
"The Third High Seat is Gawain Bern. He is a warrior of pure light. His magic is so strong it can blind the unholy. He fights with a flail, and his presence feels like the warmth of the sun itself."
"The Second High Seat is Lancelot Le Blanc." Alaric's voice was filled with a reverence Perceival had never heard before. "He is what people think of as a true knight. A man with flowing yellow hair, yellow eyes, and full white armor. He wields a sword with a grace that is almost supernatural. His faith is unwavering, and his skill is unmatched."
"And finally," Alaric said, his voice hushed, "the leader of the Round Table, the paragon of the Church. The First High Seat, Arthur Lightborn."
Perceival hung on every word.
"Arthur has blonde hair, blue eyes, and wears armor forged from pure gold. He wields a golden broadsword, the holy blade Excalibur. Legend has it that the sword was forged in the fire of an underwater volcano and imbued with the Light itself. He is not just a paladin; he is the embodiment of our faith."
As Alaric finished his list, Perceival realized the scope of the world he was now a part of. The Church was not a monolithic entity; it was a complex tapestry of warriors, each with their own strengths, flaws, and dark pasts.
They finished their meal and walked back to the Crusaders' Quarters, the tired but satisfied citizens of Eldergrove returning to their normal lives. As Perceival lay on his simple cot, the adrenaline of the battle finally giving way to a deep, bone-weary exhaustion, he thought about Alaric's words.
The path to becoming a paladin wasn't just about fighting; it was about conviction. He had faced a legion of the dead and stood strong. Now he knew what lay ahead: the hunt for a necromancer, the ultimate test. He closed his eyes, his mind already beginning to plan for a journey far beyond the safety of Eldergrove's walls. The shadows were out there, but so was the truth, and he was determined to find it.