The road to Budavasta was a festering wound carved through a dying land. It was not mud that caked the hooves of their horses, but the distilled grime of despair, a mixture of rotting leaves, spilled goods, and the unspoken filth of a people abandoned. The air itself was thick, tasting of damp soot and a sweet, sickly decay that spoke of things better left buried.
At the head of a column of four, Uriel rode. His silver armour, though travel-stained, caught the slivers of grey light that pierced the canopy of skeletal trees, becoming beacons in the gloom. This was not the polished regalia of a palace guard; it was the functional, scarred steel of a working knight, the plates etched with the subtle patterns of the Iron Dome's forges. It was a second skin he had earned, not inherited.
"To think," came a booming voice from his right, "in a few short months, you'll be on your knees in the Great Church itself, with the High Confessor's hand on your brow." Gulad's face, a craggy map of old battles beneath a helm of plain steel, was split by a wide grin. His own armour was heavier, bulkier, a testament to his preference for meeting problems head-on with overwhelming force. "The official title. Kingnt. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
From behind, a lighter, more melodic voice chimed in. "The goal he set for himself when he first crossed into the Iron Dome. To rise from nothing to the shield of the realm. You have to admit, Commander, it's the stuff of ballads." Acrosn, the youngest of the squad, guided his horse with an effortless grace. His armour was finer, more articulated, and a short, elegantly curved bow was slung across his back. He was the scion of a minor noble house who had chosen the field over the court, and his admiration for Uriel was pure and untainted by envy.
Uriel said nothing, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. His eyes, a calm and unsettling shade of grey, scanned the treeline, the ditches, the way a shadow fell just a little too long. He was a man of quiet intensity, his ambition a cold, private fire that had propelled him this far.
"The ballads never mention the stink of places like this," rumbled Gulad, his grin fading as he sniffed the air with distaste. "Or the vermin it attracts."
It was then that the third member of their squad, the one known only as the Masked Knight, urged his horse forward to ride abreast with Uriel. His armour was identical in make but devoid of any heraldry, and his face was entirely concealed by a helm of featureless, polished silver, a visor without seams or eye-slits. How he saw, how he breathed, was a mystery he never answered. He did not speak. He merely tilted his head a fraction towards Uriel, a silent question hanging in the air between them.
Uriel gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "I feel it too."
The ambush erupted not with a cry, but with the sudden, thunderous rhythm of hooves. From the dense thickets on either side of the road, they came. Twenty riders astride massive, snorting destriers, all clad in mismatched, blackened leathers and mail. Their faces were hardened by cruelty and want, their physiques hulking and powerful. But it was the brand on the flanks of their jet-black horses that confirmed Uriel's suspicion: a crude, spiked circle. The Spur, the most powerful gang holding Budavasta in its thrall.
They did not demand surrender or state their purpose. Their purpose was murder, clear and simple. They came in a wave, a scythe of drawn steel aimed at the four silver-clad figures.
"Silver Armours, to me!" Uriel's command was calm, a rock against the crashing wave.
The battle was not a brawl; it was a symphony of controlled, lethal violence. Gulad met the first rider with a roar, his greatsword a blur of silver. He didn't parry the man's axe; he smashed through it, the force of the blow cleaving through weapon, armour, and bone. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of destruction that broke the enemy's initial charge.
Acrosn never drew his blade. His horse danced back, and in a fluid motion, his bow was in his hand. The twang of the string was a deadly punctuation to the chaos. Three thieves fell in as many seconds, arrows sprouting from their throats with impossible accuracy, their own momentum carrying them from their saddles.
The Masked Knight was the most terrifying of all. He moved with an unnatural, flowing precision. He didn't block attacks; he flowed around them, his long, slender sword finding gaps that shouldn't exist. A thrust here, a flick of the wrist there, and a man would gasp, clutching a fatal wound he never saw coming. He was silence and death, a reaper in silver.
And Uriel… Uriel was the eye of the storm. He moved with a brutal, efficient economy. His broadsword was an extension of his will, deflecting a mace, shattering a sword, and opening a rider from hip to shoulder in one continuous motion. He fought not with anger, but with a profound, chilling focus. He saw the entire battlefield, the ebb and flow of the fight, and he moved to where he was needed most, his presence shoring up their line, his blade ending threats with finality.
In less than two minutes, it was over. Nineteen bodies lay strewn across the road, their blood beginning to pool in the ruts. The twentieth, a man with a broken arm and a deep gash on his leg, writhed in the mud, his eyes wide with terror as the four knights closed in around him.
The Masked Knight dismounted and stood over the man. He didn't speak, didn't gesture. He simply stood, his blank, silver visor staring down, a silent, unbearable pressure.
The thief broke. "Mercy! For the love of God, mercy!"
"You speak of God now?" Gulad spat, his voice thick with contempt. "After ambushing His knights? Your tongue lies as easily as your soul."
"They sent us!" the man blubbered, his courage utterly shattered by the silent judgement of the masked figure. "The Spur! The word in Budavasta… they said you were coming. The Silver Saviour." He said the last words with a sneer that was quickly replaced by a whimper. "They said you'd try to impose order. To bring back the Church's law. We don't want it! We don't need your saving! We don't need your god!"
The man's confession hung in the air, a testament to the depth of the rot they were riding into. A city that would rather kill its saviour than be saved.
Gulad's face darkened like a thunderhead. "Infidel," he growled, the word a death sentence. He looked to Uriel for the order.
Uriel held his gaze for a long moment, then gave a single, curt nod. He would show this city the order it so desperately rejected.
With a clean, powerful swing, Gulad's greatsword ended the man's heresy and his life. The head rolled into the ditch, its final expression one of shock.
A world away, within the hallowed, echoing vastness of the Great Catholic Church of the Iron Dome, the air was still and fragrant with incense. Sunlight, clean and brilliant, streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the stone floor in hues of sapphire, ruby, and gold.
Before a side-altar dedicated to a minor saint of protection, a young boy knelt. He was small, his hair a shock of preternaturally white hair, and his eyes, open and unseeing, were the pale, clouded blue of a winter sky. He was blind.
Kneeling beside him was Roots, her simple servant's robe a stark contrast to the opulence around them. Her hands, chapped from work, gently covered his. Together, they held a simple wooden talisman.
"Just like the stories," the boy whispered, his voice full of awe. "Please, let me be brave. Let me be strong."
Roots's voice was soft, a gentle counterpoint to the violence on the road to Budavasta. "Pray not for strength, Liam. Pray for a righteous heart. The strength will follow." She guided his fingers over the talisman. "The Knight you admire, Sir Uriel, his power comes not from his sword, but from his purpose. Pray for a purpose."
She closed her eyes, and her lips moved in a silent, fervent prayer, not just for the boy, but for the knight in the field, a world away, who was becoming a legend drenched in blood, even as they prayed for his light.