The air atop the northern mountain crackles with tension, thick enough to cut with a blade. Abe Whitefang stands rigid, his white scales gleaming under the pale sun as acid smoke curls and twists around his boots. His blue eyes narrow with arrogance as he fixes his gaze on Arkar.
"What are you doing here, Arkar?" he sneers, his voice dripping with mockery. "Come crawling back to beg the elders for forgiveness? Or do you want me to kick your ass out of here again like I did the day you were cast out?" He flashes a grin full of sharp teeth.
Arkar stands his ground, saying nothing—his golden eyes steady, his hands clasped loosely at his sides. Abe's gaze drifts past him, landing on the rest of the group, and a loud laugh rumbles from deep in his chest.
"Oh! And who are these puny lower life forms you've dragged up here with you?" he crows, his eyes sweeping over each of them in turn.
Akmenos's jaw clenches, and he balls his fists so tight his knuckles turn white. Geth places a steady hand on his shoulder, but even he looks ready to lunge at the insult.
"I see how it is!" Abe continues, pointing a clawed finger at Hythesion and the others. "You think bringing some weak little followers here will help you take back your position in the church? News flash, traitor—it'll never happen! And I'll be more than happy to beat every single one of you into the ground to prove it!" He throws his head back and laughs, the sound echoing across the white stone plain.
Arkar steps forward, his voice low but firm. "Back off, Abe. These people are under my protection."
Abe takes three quick steps closer, getting so close their snouts nearly touch. "Or what?"
Before Arkar can respond, a clear, commanding voice cuts through the tension from behind Abe.
"Stand down, Abe."
A hush falls over the plain as a new figure walks toward them—another dragonborn, his scales gleaming like polished ice and quartz, jagged points running along his brow and spine like shards of winter. His eyes are a piercing frost-blue, calm and focused as he moves with effortless grace. He wears a tailored black coat trimmed in silver, layered over reinforced silver armor that glints in the light. A large faceted crystal sits at his breastplate, matching the gem atop the ornate staff he holds. Translucent wings, thin as winter mist, fold neatly at his back, and his scaled tail trails behind him, tipped with sharp spines.
Beside him strides a female dragonborn, her presence as striking as the sun breaking through storm clouds. Her scales are pale white like stone, veined and accented with brilliant gold that catches every ray of light. Golden highlights trace her crests and spine, and her amber eyes hold both intelligence and quiet ferocity. She wears dark gray armor textured like weathered rock, reinforced with overlapping plates and bold golden accents. Thick white fur frames her neck, and tiny flecks of gold seem to drift in the air around her as she moves.
"We don't want to upset Bishop Kor'dor with unnecessary violence," she says, her voice carrying a note of warning as she places a hand on Abe's shoulder.
Abe lets out a sharp huff but steps back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fine."
Hythesion leans in to whisper to Arkar, his eyes never leaving the new arrivals. "Who are those two?"
"Elite warriors—among the highest-ranked in the White Order," Arkar replies quietly. "The male is Louie Zafra. The female is Anniebie Incoy. They answer only to the elders themselves."
Louie stops a few feet from the group, his frost-blue eyes scanning each of them carefully before settling on Arkar. "My apologies for my companion's temper, visitors. Abe is… passionate about protecting this sacred place. He means well, even if his methods leave much to be desired."
Louie's frost-blue eyes soften slightly as they settle on Arkar, and he gives a small, respectful nod. "Arkar… it's nice to see you here. Though I admit, I'm surprised. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
As he speaks, his gaze drifts past Arkar and lands on Hythesion—and a flicker of recognition crosses his face. His expression shifts from polite to genuinely impressed, and he straightens up a little.
"What do we have here?" he says, a warm smile touching his lips for the first time. "The famous strategist of the Silverlake Mercenaries! Hythesion, is it not? What an absolute honor… I've heard tales of your work in the Eastern Marches—how you turned the tide at the Battle of Blackwood with nothing but clever tactics and a handful of mages."
Louie steps forward, extending a scaled hand in greeting. Hythesion hesitates for a moment before taking it—their hands clasp firmly, the dragonborn's grip strong but not crushing. After a brief shake, Louie steps back a few paces, still smiling.
"I must say, your mastery of both magic and strategy is truly astonishing," he continues, his voice carrying genuine admiration. "Not quite on par with my own arcane skills, of course—" he adds with a playful glint in his eyes "—but still, it's remarkable what you've accomplished with so little formal training."
Hythesion feels slight irritated of what heard but left a fake smirk, "Tha—thanks."
Arkar stands tall, his voice clear and unwavering as he addresses Louie directly. "I need to see Bishop Kor'dor. It's urgent."
Anniebie's amber eyes narrow with suspicion, and she takes a step forward, her golden-accented scales catching the light as she speaks. "Why? And why would we let someone like you—cast out for heresy, stripped of your rank and privileges—walk into the presence of our highest leader?"
Before Arkar can respond, Louie holds up a hand to quiet her. "That's enough, Anniebie. We don't judge without hearing the full story." He turns back to Arkar, his expression serious now. "May I ask what business brings you to seek Bishop Kor'dor himself?"
Just then, a deep, weathered voice rumbles from behind them—carrying the weight of decades, if not centuries, of authority.
"What's going on here?"
A figure emerges from the shadow of the temple's main doors—a dragonborn elder whose scales are the color of aged ivory, with deep lines etched into his face and neck that speak to his years. He wears a long white holy robe embroidered with silver thread that glows faintly in the acid-tinged air; the fabric falls in graceful folds, edged with fur taken from sacred mountain beasts. On his head sits a tall pointed hat of the same white cloth, adorned with small silver bells that jingle softly as he moves, and a single blue sapphire is set at its peak. His eyes—once bright gold, now faded to honey—scan the group with quiet intensity, and a silver chain bearing a carved crystal medallion rests against his chest.
At the sound of his voice, Abe, Louie, and Anniebie immediately step back, bowing their heads slightly as they make way for him. Abe's usual arrogance is gone, replaced by rigid respect. Louie lowers his staff to the ground in a gesture of deference. Anniebie places a fist over her heart and inclines her head deeply.
Abe, Louie, and Anniebie bow deeply—their heads lowered, wings folded tight against their backs in perfect deference. But Arkar remains standing straight, his eyes locked on the elder, not a single muscle giving way to formality.
Abe's jaw clenches the moment he notices, and he steps forward sharply, his voice rising with indignation. "How dare you not pay respect to our—"
"Enough."
The Bishop raises one weathered hand, fingers extended in a simple, quiet gesture. It's all it takes to cut Abe off mid-sentence—he snaps his mouth shut, stepping back with a sharp nod of acknowledgment, though his eyes still flash with anger as he glares at Arkar.
Bishop Kor'dor's honey-colored eyes never leave Arkar's face as he lowers his hand. The air around them grows still, the acid smoke seeming to hold its breath along with everyone else.
"You do not bow," the Bishop says—not as an accusation, but as a simple statement of fact. His voice carries no anger, only quiet curiosity. "Even after all that has passed between us, you still refuse to bend your knee to anyone but Vanessa herself."
He takes a slow step closer to Arkar, his ivory scales catching the light as he moves. The silver bells on his hat jingle softly, cutting through the silence.
"Tell me, Arkar—what is it that makes you stand so tall in the face of tradition? Is it pride? Or do you carry a burden that makes even the oldest customs seem small?"
"I just want to get directly to the point," Arkar says, his voice steady and unflinching. "I have no intention of paying respect to killers."
The words hang heavy in the air—sharp as ice, cutting through every ounce of formality. Louie's eyes widen slightly; Anniebie grips the hilt of her weapon at her side; even the Bishop pauses, his weathered face showing the first flicker of surprise. But it's Abe who reacts most violently—he stands up straight behind the Bishop, his hands balling into fists, blue eyes blazing with fury.
On the other side of the circle, Akmenos mirrors him exactly—stepping forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Arkar, his own fists clenched, ready to defend their ally at a moment's notice. Geth and Ethan move closer too, weapons half-drawn as tension crackles across the white stone plain.
"Killers?" Bishop Kor'dor repeats, his voice calm despite the accusation. "In what reason would you say such a thing of your own order?"
"You let those people suffer and die!" Arkar's voice rises now, raw with emotion he's clearly held back for years. "You let the plague consume them, turn their bodies to nothing! I was the only one who tried to help—who used every bit of magic I knew to heal them—and yet you didn't lift a finger to aid them. Worse than that, you stopped me from saving the few I could still reach!"
The Bishop is silent for a moment, then begins to walk slowly in a circle around Arkar, his white robes sweeping across the clean stone.
"Hmmm," he murmurs thoughtfully. "The plague was natural. A balance that nature itself demanded. We did nothing because interfering would have put all of us at risk—every soul on this mountain, every follower of Vanessa across the land. How about you?" He stops directly behind Arkar, his voice low but clear. "You tried to save them, but not all of them. You pushed yourself beyond what you were capable of, chasing a title you were never meant to hold. Just because you learned a few old spells from Vanessa's book doesn't make you a hero. If anything… it's you who is the killer. You promised them salvation you couldn't deliver—and in doing so, you made their final moments harder than they needed to be."
Arkar stood frozen in place, his jaw tight as he stared at the ground—silent but clearly wounded by the Bishop's words. The elder stopped in front of him, his honey eyes hardening with authority.
"I let you off with a warning when you disobeyed our rule about reading Vanessa's sacred book," he said, his voice carrying across the still plain. "But to use a spell from its pages? That breaks the oldest law of our order."
Hythesion felt a fire ignite in his chest—hot and fierce. He stepped forward without thinking, placing himself between Arkar and the Bishop.
"Excuse me, your holiness," he said, his tone sharp despite the formal address. "But it would seem you are underestimating Arkar." He held his ground as he faced the elder directly, not backing down an inch.
"You cast him out because he did something helpful?" Hythesion continued, his voice rising with passion. "Because he tried to save lives when no one else would?"
"We cast him out because he broke our church's most sacred law," the Bishop replied firmly. "Laws that have kept us safe for centuries."
"Then that's the stupidest law I've ever heard. No offense intended." Hythesion's hand shot out, pointing directly at the Bishop's chest. "Vanessa's book is her teachings for all future generations—including you. If a resurrection spell is written there, then she wanted us to learn it, to use it for greater good in her name. But it seems to me you can't stand that Arkar was the first among you strong enough to master it, while the rest of you couldn't. That makes you weak—not him. So shame on you for stopping him from saving those people. He's not the killer here—you are."
"Watch who you're pointing at, lower life form," Anniebie snapped, stepping forward with her hand on her blade, golden scales flaring with anger.
"That 'lower life form' could be the end of you if you're not careful," Ethan shot back, moving to stand beside Hythesion, his own hand hovering near his bow.
"Oh you worthless pieces of—" Abe roared, lunging forward with claws bared, blue eyes blazing like wildfire.
"Pack it up, homeboi," Akmenos growled, meeting him halfway with fists raised, knuckles cracking as he tensed for a fight.
Geth's hand flew to the hilt of his sword, fingers wrapping around the leather grip as he pulled it half out of its sheath—metal scraping against metal in a sound that made everyone's skin prickle. The air grew thick and heavy, charged with raw magic and barely contained violence. Acid smoke swirled faster around them, hissing and spitting where it touched the heated ground. A sudden gust of mountain wind whipped through the space, sending snow and grit flying into their faces as both sides squared off, muscles coiled tight like springs ready to snap.
CRACK!
The Bishop slammed his staff hard against the white stone, sending a shockwave rippling out from where he stood. The force was powerful enough to push both groups back several feet—creating clear space between them as dust and small pebbles skittered across the plain.
"ENOUGH!" he boomed, his voice echoing off the mountain walls with undeniable authority.
The Bishop's eyes narrowed as he fixed his gaze on Arkar once more. "You came all this way just to start a fight?"
"No," Arkar said, his voice steady despite the tension still crackling in the air. "I came here to get the Book of Vanessa."
A sharp intake of breath rippled through Louie and Anniebie. The Bishop let out a low chuckle, though there was no humor in it. "Why would I give you our most sacred object—the very heart of this church?"
"Because you don't even use it," Arkar shot back, meeting his gaze directly. "It sits locked away in your vaults, gathering dust while people suffer and die. Might as well give it to someone who will actually put its teachings to use."
"You think you're bold enough to march up here and demand Vanessa's Book?" Abe snarled, shoving past Louie to stand directly in front of the Bishop. "You've got another thing coming, traitor!"
Akmenos moved just as quickly, planting himself between Abe and Arkar. He held up a hand at chest level, palm out in a clear stop gesture—but before he could speak, Abe slapped his hand away hard, the sound echoing sharp across the plain.
"Don't you dare touch me," Abe hissed, leaning in so close his scaled face was inches from Akmenos'. His breath—cold as mountain air—fanned across Akmenos' skin as he whispered, "Lower life forms like you don't belong here… especially you, horned devil."
Rage flashed across Akmenos' face—hot and fierce. He clenched his fist so tight his knuckles turned bone-white, drawing back his arm to throw a punch that would've sent Abe reeling. But just before his fist could fly, Arkar's hand shot out and wrapped around his wrist, holding him steady.
"Stand down, Akmenos," Arkar said quietly.
At the same moment, the Bishop's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Abe. That is enough."
Louie stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Abe's shoulder, pulling him back a step. Abe resisted at first, his blue eyes locked on Akmenos with pure venom—but eventually he relented, though he didn't look away until Louie gave his shoulder a sharp squeezed.
"If you are so persistent in this… then let us settle it properly," Bishop Kor'dor said, his voice carrying across the still plain. "How about an Ordeal Games?"
Confusion washed over Hythesion's group—they exchanged glances, none of them familiar with the term. Arkar stood his ground, his expression serious as he waited for the Bishop to explain.
"Stakes first," Arkar said simply.
The Bishop nodded slowly. "If you win… I will personally hand over the Book of Vanessa—no questions asked, no strings attached."
Arkar's jaw tightened, his hands clenching at his sides as he braced himself for the other half of the bargain.
"But if you lose," the Bishop continued, his voice growing heavier with consequence, "you will return to the White Order, be reinstated to your old position—and follow every single order given by the elders without question. Additionally… you will give us that." He pointed directly at Hythesion's pocket, where the pendant hung hidden beneath his cloak.
"Sounds fair?"
Arkar's mind raced—he knew the pendant was critical to their quest to help Janna, to uncover the truth about Gannurim, to stop whatever darkness was spreading across the land. He started to shake his head, ready to refuse, when Hythesion stepped forward.
"Deal," he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Arkar spun around to look at him, his eyes wide with concern—but Hythesion gave him a steady nod.
Arkar turned back to face the Bishop, his resolve hardening. "When… and where?"
"Tomorrow," the Bishop replied, his voice final. "At the temple grounds, at noon sharp."
"Done," Arkar said without hesitation.
The Bishop gave a short nod, then turned and headed toward the temple entrance. Anniebie and Louie fell into step behind him—Anniebie casting one last wary glance over her shoulder, Louie's expression unreadable. Abe lingered for a moment longer, flashing a sharp-toothed grin and making a slashing motion across his throat before following the others inside, the green acid smoke closing in behind him.
Arkar and the group stood in silence as the temple doors swung shut behind the White Order warriors. The green smoke began to creep back across the white stone plain, hissing softly as it touched the ground once more. With heavy steps, they turned and made their way back toward the mountain path—each lost in thought, the weight of tomorrow's challenge pressing down on them like the mountain itself.