(Chapter 7)
Eldhar, standing near the heart of the camp, issued his orders with the patience of a man who knew the weight of waiting. The knights would remain still until the King's reply arrived—his command clear, his tone steady. Aven had already carried the final report, his last duty as a knight fulfilled when he delivered it into royal hands. Until word returned, there was nothing more to be done.
Yet Eldhar knew the dangers of stillness. Tension could coil tighter than bowstrings in silence, so he gave another order—not of preparation, but of reprieve. Rest while you can. Laugh, eat, remember yourselves. Though the situation was not yet dire, though their fate hung in the uncertain space between decision and decree, Eldhar saw no harm in a brief breath of peace.
The training ground was quiet in the early dawn, mist curling across the dirt. Seraphine stood awkwardly with a wooden staff in hand, her grip unsure. Across from her, Nilda circled with the patient eyes of a teacher.
"Hold it higher. Your arms are too stiff," Nilda instructed.
Seraphine adjusted, fumbling. "Like this?"
"Better. Remember—your strength isn't in your arms, it's in your stance." Nilda stepped forward, nudging Seraphine's feet into place. "Good. Now… swing."
The strike was clumsy, unbalanced. Seraphine nearly lost her footing. She flushed in embarrassment, but Nilda only smiled faintly.
"Do you know how many times I tripped when I first held a sword?" Nilda asked.
Seraphine shook her head.
"Too many. The others laughed, but I kept standing back up. That's what matters."
Seraphine bit her lip, then nodded firmly. For the first time, she felt like someone believed she could be more than a noble sheltered in her family's shadow.
---
Far Away – The Castle of Ragnafiore
The scene shifted.
Within the vaulted halls of the royal castle, Aven knelt before King Almenac, placing a sealed letter on the steps of the throne. His armor looked worn, his eyes tired, but his voice carried firm resolve.
"Your Majesty. This is the report of Commander Eldhar and the Purge Knights. The Trinity of the Abyss.. they move again. They attempted to seize a forbidden tome and unleashed a wyvern upon Ethille's people. We prevailed, but their power grows."
King Almenac broke the seal, his sharp eyes scanning the report by the glow of stained-glass light. His jaw tightened as he read.
"The time has finally come," he said gravely, his voice echoing through the chamber. "For years, we prepared for the shadow's return. Now it stirs again. The Purge Knights… and this Hex Flame Swordsman… may be the keys."
Aven bowed his head, hiding the weight in his eyes. He had delivered the message—but in his heart, he knew his path had diverged. His duty to the crown was fulfilled. His journey as a knight… was at its end.
---
In the meantime, it had been three days since Aven departed Ethille, carrying Eldhar's report to the King of Ragnafiore."
Meanwhile, somewhere in the heart of Ethille.
The quiet rhythm of the Purge Knights' camp shifted when the first horns sounded from the city gates. A low, commanding note rolled through the streets, carrying with it the unmistakable announcement of royalty. The laughter and sparring faded as every knight turned toward the rising plume of banners beyond the square.
The royal carriage approached with a gravity that stilled even the city's bustle. Its lacquered black wood gleamed in the light of torches, gilded trim catching fire in the dusk. Around it marched hundreds of royal soldiers in perfect formation, their polished halberds glinting as one. The people of the city bowed low as the procession passed, the streets parting in reverent silence.
The carriage halted before the encampment. Trumpets sounded again, sharper this time, and the doors opened to reveal King Almenac himself. Clad in a mantle of deep crimson lined with sable, the king descended, his presence heavy with the weight of crown and war. His face bore the deep lines of battles fought both with sword and with statecraft, yet his eyes were keen, cutting straight to the gathered knights.
Eldhar stepped forward and knelt, fist pressed to chestplate. The rest of the Purge Knights followed suit, a chorus of armor clattering as one.
The king raised a hand. "Rise." His voice was steady, ringing like iron struck against stone.
He wasted no time 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."
With a signal, stewards stepped forward, bearing scrolls. Each knight received one, parchment sealed with the blazing crest of Ragnafiore.
"With these seals, you will pass freely across borders. You are to root out the cult wherever it festers".
The air grew heavier as the king's expression darkened.
"But know this—my spies have unearthed troubling news. The Cult whose trying to revive the Death Lord from the abyss
does not move 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".
The knights exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of the task growing by leagues in an instant.
King Almenac's voice cut through their silence:
"You will not only hunt the cult—you must drag this hidden hand they called Apostle of Daath into the light. Fail, and the tide will not stop at Ragnafiore's shores. It will sweep across every realm until none remain."
His gaze swept over them, sharp and unyielding. "Steel your hearts. What lies ahead is not conquest, but purgation."
Then King Almenac's voice dropped lower, almost grim. "And there is one more matter…" 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 my spies' reports. A name that should not exist."
The camp fell into absolute silence, every eye fixed on the king.
He broke the seal, unrolled the parchment—and his lips parted as if to speak.
But the words never came.
From the shadows beyond the camp, a horn blared—a shrill, unnatural note that froze blood in the veins of even hardened veterans. Torches guttered. Horses screamed.
The king's face turned ashen. He closed the scroll with a snap. And then...
The horn's shrill echo had barely died when the air itself seemed to change. Shadows thickened along the edge of the camp, twisting unnaturally against the firelight. The knights reached for their weapons, armor clattering in rising panic—but then the torches guttered all at once, snuffed as though the night itself had drawn breath.
From that living darkness, figures emerged. Eight in total, their movements silent, deliberate, and suffocating. Cloaked in heavy robes, their presence pressed on the world like a storm about to break.
One by one, they lowered their hoods.
Scarred faces, eyes gleaming with fanatic fire. Strange marks carved into flesh, glowing faintly like embers.
At the far left, a familiar face struck like a knife through the heart—Holon.
His features were gaunt, sharpened by something not human, yet unmistakable. The wounds Azre had carved into him not long ago still etched his flesh, jagged and half-healed as though preserved in mockery. His eyes found hers instantly, burning with cruel familiarity, lips curling into a grin that promised nothing but pain.
And then—him.
The last figure remained still even as the others revealed themselves. He alone did not need to move for the world to bend. With a slow, deliberate gesture, he raised a pale hand. The parchment in King Almenac's grasp ignited in a silent flame, curling into ash before the king could so much as flinch.
And then the world stopped.
The crackling of the fires froze mid-spark. The knights stood paralyzed in mid-motion, blades half-drawn, their faces suspended between fear and fury. Even the banners of Ragnafiore, caught in the wind, hung unmoving as if the sky itself had forgotten to breathe.
Only the Apostles walked freely in this silence.
The leader stepped forward, his presence heavier than steel, his every stride echoing though no sound was made. He stopped before the king, and for a single frozen heartbeat, their eyes met.
Not hate. Not rage. Something colder. Something older.
When time lurched forward again, fire roared back into life, knights staggered in confusion, and the king's knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword. But the leader only smiled, voice calm and deliberate, carrying across the camp like the toll of a bell:
"Now you have seen us. Now you know. We are not whispers. We are not shadows. We are the Apostles of Daath."
He lowered his head slightly, a mockery of courtesy.
"Consider this… a greeting."
The king's hand twitched toward his sword, but before he could answer, a low chuckle split the silence.
Holon.
His gaze swept across the camp until it found Azre.
"Still alive, little viper?"
His voice dripped with venomous amusement.
"I almost thought you'd finished me last time. Almost."
He dragged a finger slowly along the scar at his collar, the one Azre herself had carved into him.
"But look at me now—stronger. Chosen. Perhaps Daath thought me too useful to discard." His grin widened, cruel and mocking. "Next time, Azre, I won't let you slip away. You'll beg to finish what you started.
And with that, the eight vanished into darkness as swiftly as they had appeared, leaving only the stench of scorched parchment and the weight of their presence burned into every soul who had witnessed them.
…And there, carved into the stones where the Apostles had stood, glowed a single sigil—burning, alive, and pulsing like a heartbeat.
It was counting down.
The knights barely had time to react. The final pulse flared, brighter than fire, brighter than steel.
Then the world split open.
The sigil erupted in a torrent of black flame and searing light, exploding outward like a wave of living shadow. Armor rang, earth shattered, and the camp was swallowed in chaos.
And in the midst of the blast—just before sound drowned into nothing—Holon's mocking laugh echoed one last time.