The day after the meeting, I found myself looking over the courtyard again. The men stood in rough formation, polishing their armor, sharpening blades, speaking in quiet tones. The sun hung low, bleeding through thin clouds. The smell of oil, sweat, and steel filled the air.
Orders had come from the palace at dawn. We would march south in three days. I had no time to return north and gather the rest of the Order of Colardio. We were to ride as we were—one half of our strength.
It angered me more than I cared to admit.
Colardio was not just a name. It was a city. The only Order with one of its own. The other Orders shared fortresses or stayed near the capital, but Colardio stood alone, carved from red stone in the northern hills, surrounded by rivers and snow. It was built by the first of our line, men who believed in endurance before comfort. Every brick carried the mark of a hand that had bled for it.
Now, those men would stay behind.
I watched my soldiers polish their armor in silence. They were good men, trained well, strong in Aura, but half of them had never seen true war. The others bore scars that told more truth than words ever could.
Captain Harn approached, carrying a ledger. He stopped a few paces away, as he always did.
"The men are ready, my lord," he said. "We can march within the hour if needed."
I nodded. "We wait for the other Orders. I will not arrive early for a war that has not begun."
He hesitated. "The men grow restless. They hear talk of the Theocracies gathering at the border. Some say they are calling the faithful to holy arms."
"They can pray as long as they wish," I said. "They will need more than faith when they face steel."
Harn smiled faintly. "You do not think they can win?"
"I think they can burn villages and throw stones with wings," I said. "But they cannot break Orlaniso. Not yet."
He nodded again and left to check the lines.
I turned my gaze south. The palace rose in the distance, white and gold, bright even through the haze. I wondered how the Crown Prince had known of the rock golems before I even reported them. No message had gone through me. No courier had reached the city before us.
The thought lingered.
Dorian von Ricktar knew too much. His spies were fast, or he was not telling us everything. I did not know which truth was worse.
As the sun began to sink, I went to the training grounds. The yard was small and muddy, the kind meant for sparring, not for drilling an army. The men cleared space as I entered.
I drew my sword. The Fang of Orlanis. The metal caught the last light, dull and clean.
I began to swing.
No Aura. No energy. Just the body. The blade was heavy, five feet of tempered steel, but it moved as part of me. Each swing dug into the air with the sound of torn cloth. Sweat built along my arms, dripping to the mud.
Swing. Step. Turn. Swing again.
I thought of the old days, when I was not yet a Master. When every breath hurt and every motion was punishment. The body learns through pain. It remembers what the mind tries to forget.
I trained until the stars came out, the sword growing heavier with each motion. My arms burned, and my lungs filled with the cold air of night.
When I finally stopped, the yard was empty except for one man.
He stood near the gate, holding a jug of mead. His armor was worn thin at the edges, his eyes old and soft. Sir Kendal. A veteran of fifty years who should have retired long ago, yet still clung to his post.
He smiled as he walked closer. "You train too hard, my lord."
"Not enough," I said.
He held out the jug. "Drink with me, just this once. Before the blood starts to flow again."
I wiped the sweat from my brow and looked at him. "You know I do not drink before a march."
"I know," he said, still smiling. "But soon we will ride against the south. Three Theocracies at once. And when we win, they will write songs of Orlaniso again. They will remember our names. For a kingdom our size, that is worth a toast."
He lifted the jug and took a long pull, then offered it again.
I took it this time. The mead was strong, sweet, and old. It burned in my throat.
"The men talk of it," Kendal said. "They say we will show them that even a small kingdom can bite like a wolf. That we will strike fast and hard. They believe you will lead us true."
I handed the jug back. "Belief is not enough. The Theocracies are not fools. They have mages. We have men."
"Aura is stronger than magic," Kendal said. "Every priest knows that."
I looked at him. "You sound like a man who has never been burned by a spell."
He laughed softly. "Perhaps not. But I have seen your blade cut a man in half. That is enough for me."
He sat on a barrel and looked out at the empty yard. "It will be war, proper war. Not a raid. Not a border fight. I thought I would never see it again."
"You are too old for it," I said.
He nodded. "I know. But I will go anyway. There is pride in dying for the land that made you."
"Pride is for poets," I said. "We fight for the ones who cannot."
He grinned. "Then you will fight forever."
The words stayed in the air for a while. I did not answer.
He drank again, then sighed. "I should go. The others will be at the tavern by now. Singing before they forget the words."
"Go," I said. "Rest while you can."
He stood, bowed slightly, and left the yard. His steps were slow, but steady.
When he was gone, I looked up at the stars. They hung low, sharp against the black. The air was colder now, carrying the faint smell of snow from the north.
I cleaned my sword, wiped it dry, and sheathed it.
The night pressed close.
I returned to my quarters and sat by the window, watching the lanterns flicker along the streets. The sound of laughter carried from the lower city where the men drank. Somewhere, a bard's voice tried to sing over the noise.
I thought again of the prince. His calm voice. His knowledge of the golems. His quiet certainty.
Dorian von Ricktar was young, yet he carried the weight of an old king. Perhaps he already knew what we would find on the border. Perhaps he wanted us to find it.
The Theocracies would not act without reason. They worshiped Dukias, their dead god, and believed magic was his gift. The golems, the cores, the false life—they were trying to remake creation itself. To prove their faith had not died with their empire.
I had fought their kind before. Their priests smiled when they killed. Their soldiers prayed before they bled. They thought prayer made them holy.
In Orlaniso, we did not pray. We did not ask. Aura was not a gift to us. It was a weight we chose to bear. The divine was already inside the heart; it only needed to be broken open.
I closed my eyes and breathed slow. The faint hum of Aura stirred under the skin, quiet and steady. It was not power, only presence.
Tomorrow would be the last day of peace for a long while.
I slept little that night.
Morning came cold and sharp. The city was alive again, full of sound and smell. The men gathered near the outer walls, their armor bright in the weak sun.
Captain Harn approached as I finished fastening my gauntlet.
"The men are ready," he said. "All accounted for."
"Good," I said. "We ride at dawn tomorrow."
He nodded and hesitated. "You did not rest."
"I have rested enough for one life," I said.
He smiled slightly. "Then we will need to ride fast to keep up."
I looked past him, toward the open gate that led south. Beyond that gate lay the fields, the woods, and the long road to war.
Kendal passed by, carrying his helm under his arm. He grinned as he saw me. "Drink helped the sleep, my lord."
"Then you drank too much," I said.
"Perhaps," he said, still smiling.
He moved to join the others.
I watched them all for a long time. They laughed, shouted, cursed, lived. Soldiers always did before battle. It was how they made peace with what came next.
I turned and looked north, toward where Colardio stood beyond the hills. I could almost see its red walls in my mind, hear the sound of steel in the yards. I wished I could bring them all.
But wishes were for children.
The bell from the palace sounded. Three slow chimes. The call for the Masters to report before departure.
I picked up my sword and stepped toward the sound.