The parade ground of Solstice Keep shimmered with torchlight, a sea of armored forms arrayed in flawless ranks. The banners of the Solar Guard snapped crisply in the evening wind, each bearing the sigil of the Dawn Star, its gilded rays painted in fire and gold. The rhythm of discipline was everywhere: boots aligned in exact rows, blades polished to a mirror sheen, voices silent until commanded.
Captain Alaric Veyne moved through the ordered formation like a shadow of iron and authority. His steps were measured, his posture precise, his gaze sharp enough to cut through the faintest hint of disarray. A man of tall stature, with a stern face carved by discipline rather than age, Alaric carried himself as though the stars themselves had invested him with their authority.
At his side hung his sword, Sunsilver, its blade forged from rare star-metal said to hum faintly when drawn beneath starlight. To the men under his command, it was more than a weapon—it was a symbol, a reminder that their Captain's faith was not mere words but steel and fire, tested and proven.
Alaric paused before the front rank, his gaze sweeping over the soldiers. Not a man shifted, not a breath sounded too loudly. Discipline, after all, was the highest prayer. The temples preached in hymns; the Guard prayed with formation, obedience, and blood.
"Reports," Alaric said, his voice low but carrying across the ground like the toll of a bell.
Lieutenant Marren, a younger officer with a scar running from temple to jaw, stepped forward and saluted. "Captain, the western marches send troubling accounts. Crops withering under clear skies. Livestock collapsing in the fields. The villagers whisper of starlight fading."
Murmurs rippled faintly among the ranks, quickly quelled by the weight of silence. Alaric did not move, but his jaw tightened.
"And the patrols?" he asked.
"Two units have not returned," Marren admitted, eyes flicking downward before snapping back to attention. "The last message we received spoke of shadows moving where none should be, of the stars themselves… flickering."
The word hung heavy in the air. Flickering stars. The faithful considered such talk dangerous, heretical even. Yet it spread like rot in every corner of Aetheria, no matter how the Guard tried to stamp it out.
Alaric's hand rested on the hilt of Sunsilver. "Fear breeds weakness. Weakness invites the shadow. We will not give it foothold." His voice cut like tempered steel, each word honed to pierce doubt. "The stars do not falter. It is men who falter. And men can be corrected."
The ranks straightened imperceptibly, as though his conviction itself was a lash that struck them into firmer resolve.
"And what of Knight-Captain Kaelen?" Alaric asked, his eyes narrowing.
This time the silence stretched longer. Marren shifted but did not look away. "No word, Captain. His unit was dispatched to the lower quarters of Asterholt to investigate a disturbance during the Ceremony of Alignment. None have returned."
Alaric's gaze hardened, though no flicker of surprise betrayed him. "Kaelen was tasked with rooting out a heretic. A boy who blasphemed before the stars themselves. I will not believe he has failed. Not Kaelen."
The men exchanged glances but said nothing. Kaelen's reputation was legend among the Guard—a knight of unwavering faith, an exemplar of the Code. If he had vanished, it was not through lack of conviction.
Still, Alaric felt the faintest chill coil in his gut. He crushed it ruthlessly. Doubt was poison.
"What do the records say of this boy?" Alaric asked.
Marren swallowed. "Elian, an archivist of the Athenaeum. Witnesses claim he… changed during the Ceremony. That a star not of our charts appeared, and he was touched by it. They say the light bent wrong around him. That shadows clung where none should. The priests have called it the Mark of the Umbra."
The word struck like an arrow. Umbra. To utter it aloud was to give shape to heresy. Several soldiers stiffened, fingers tightening on their weapons.
Alaric let the silence stretch, letting them feel the weight of the word before he answered. His tone was ice, his eyes unyielding. "Then it is simple. This Elian is no child of the stars. He is their antithesis. And Kaelen pursues him still, as ordered. We will not falter in our trust."
Marren hesitated. "And if Kaelen… has been swayed?"
The question dropped like a stone into still water. A dangerous ripple.
Alaric turned his gaze on the lieutenant, and Marren's throat worked as though the weight of it pressed upon him physically. "Kaelen is the dawn's blade. He does not break. If he has not returned, it is because the task is not yet finished. I will hear no whispers otherwise."
Marren bowed his head. "Yes, Captain."
Satisfied, Alaric turned back to the assembled Guard. His voice rose, strong and unwavering, carrying to every corner of the keep. "Hear me, sons of the Dawn Star! The world falters, the weak tremble, and shadows spread their poison. But we are the fire that does not dim. We are the blade that does not break. Let the cowards whisper of failing light—we will burn brighter, until the last heresy is ash!"
A roar answered him, a single unified cry, boots striking stone in thunderous rhythm. The sound rolled across the keep, a wave of faith and fury.
Alaric let it wash over him, but his eyes remained fixed on the horizon. Beyond the walls, the stars glimmered faintly, pale and distant, and for an instant—so brief he could have dismissed it as illusion—he thought he saw one waver. A flicker.
He gripped Sunsilver tighter, the hum of the blade a steady reassurance. The stars did not falter. They could not.
But then came the runner. Dust-streaked, wide-eyed, stumbling across the courtyard with desperation in every step. He collapsed to one knee before Alaric, chest heaving.
"Captain—report—from the lower ruins," the messenger gasped. "The trail of Kaelen's unit was confirmed. Signs of conflict. Of collapse. The ruins…" He swallowed hard, voice trembling despite himself. "…the ruins have fallen in."
The murmurs returned, sharper now, like blades scraping from their sheaths. Alaric silenced them with a raised hand. His jaw set, his gaze burning like a man staring into the heart of a star.
"Then we march," he said, voice unshaken. "We will find Kaelen. We will find the heretic. And if the ruins themselves seek to bury them, we will tear them from the earth. For the stars do not falter. And neither do we."
The Guard roared again, a sound like fire catching dry tinder. But as the echo faded into the night, Alaric Veyne's eyes lingered once more on the horizon. The flicker he had seen troubled him. He buried the thought deep, locking it away behind faith and steel.
For to question was to fracture. And fractures were how shadows slipped in.