Anthill Liberation Part 1
The sign welcoming travelers to Anthill; a wooden placard carved with cheerful ants carrying grain lay face down in a puddle of muck that was equal parts mud, sewage, and entrails.
The town itself, once a bustling waystation for caravans heading to the Southern Crossroads, now had been reduced to an abattoir. The neat rows of houses were now hollowed-out husks, their windows staring like empty eye sockets at the atrocities unfolding in the streets.
There was no order there. Only the Eclipse's version of it.
In the central market square, a long, shuffling line of prisoners moved toward the processing tables. Men, women, children—it didn't matter. They were stripped of their belongings, their dignity, and soon, their humanity. Chains rattled with a mournful rhythm, punctuated by the sharp crack of heavy leather whips wielded by the Enforcers.
"Move it, cattle! Salvation doesn't wait for the slow!"
An Enforcer, his indigo robes stained with dried filth, kicked an old woman who stumbled. She fell into the mud and gasping instantly. He didn't help her up. He just kicked her again until she stopped moving.
Further down the line, near the bread distribution—if one could call moldy hardtack bread, a man broke rank.
He was gaunt, his ribs pressing against his pale skin like the bars of a cage. His eyes were wide, darting around frantically before locking onto a basket of bread sitting near a recruitment desk.
"Please!" The man threw himself at the feet of a masked Priest. "I yield! I believe! Just... give me bread! I haven't eaten in four days!"
The Priest looked down and tilted his head, amused by the man's suffering.
"You believe? In the Eclipse? In the end of this suffering?"
"Yes! Yes! I believe whatever you want me to believe!" The man clawed at the Priest's hem. "Just feed me! I'll work! I'll dig! I'll carry stones!"
The Priest chuckled. He reached into the basket, pulled out a stale loaf, and tossed it into the mud.
"Eat."
The man scrambled for it, tearing into the dirty bread with animalistic desperation. He didn't care about the grit or the filth. He just chewed and swallowed, choking back tears.
"See?" The Priest addressed the line of horrified prisoners. "Pride is a shackle. This man is free. Welcome to the fold, brother. Pick up a shovel. You dig until your hands bleed, or you become part of the foundation."
____
A few streets away, in what used to be a textile merchant's courtyard, the silence was broken by screams that no amount of prayer could silence.
Three Enforcers stood around a man forced to his knees. His arms were wrenched behind his back, tied to a wooden post with iron wire that bit deep into his flesh. His face was a ruin of bruises, one eye swollen shut, his mouth gagged with a dirty rag.
But his eyes were open. They were forced to be.
An Enforcer gripped the man's hair, yanking his head back. "Watch," he commanded, his voice trembling with a sadistic pleasure. "Watch your sins being purged."
Before them, on the fine rugs the merchant had once sold, the man's wife and teenage daughter were pinned down. Four other cultists were taking their turns. The sound of tearing fabric and grunts of exertion mixed with the muffled, sobbing pleas of the women.
They didn't act out of lust. It was something colder. It was an act of dominance, of breaking the spirit so completely that only the Cult remained. They laughed as they did it, sharing jokes about the "quality of the stock" as if discussing cattle at an auction.
The man on the post screamed into his gag. He thrashed, the wire cutting deeper until blood ran down his wrists. He wanted to close his eyes, to look away, to die. But the Enforcer holding him just leaned in close to his ear.
"This is the world you built," the Enforcer whispered. "Weak. Fragile. We are stripping it away. When we are done with them, they will thank us. They will beg for the Eclipse to take the pain away. And you? You will watch until you understand that your love, your protection... it means nothing."
The man's thrashing slowed. His visible eye went dead. The light inside him flickered and went out, replaced by a hollow, broken darkness.
He stopped struggling. He just watched like a statue of absolute despair.
_____
Overlooking the square from the balcony of the Town Hall, two figures watched the ant farm of misery below.
Estella Aria sat on the stone railing, swinging her legs like a bored child. Her robes were fresh, stitched back together after her encounter with Asep's explosives. Her face was completely healed without any marks of being burned.
"Boooring," she sighed, resting her chin on her hand. "None of these have the genetic variance I need. Where are they? You said if we invaded this town, Zachary would send his best. I expected... him."
"You're complaining too much, Estella." Said a man with the Cultist's signature indigo robe and a mask that covered his eyes. His mouth was visible with a thin smile of a manipulative man. "Patience is a virtue you lack. Besides, our goal isn't just to bait Castalia. It's also to secure the supply line. Anthill is the throat of the south. As long as we hold this, Loriana starves. And Zachary will act to liberate this place."
"You and your obsession with Zachary." Estella scoffed, picking up an apple from a fruit bowl left by the previous owner. She took a bite, chewed loudly, and swallowed. "I just hope he brings my darling Asep. I still owe him a date."
"You're no different!" Edward snapped. "And for the record, it's not obsession. It's... professional rivalry."
"Sounds like a homoerotic tension to me."
"Shut up."
Edward leaned over the balcony, watching an Enforcer execute a prisoner who had collapsed from exhaustion. The body was dragged away unceremoniously, tossed onto a growing pile near the fountain.
"This brutality is necessary," Edward murmured, more to himself than her. "Cruelty breeds hopelessness. Hopelessness breeds compliance. We don't just need bodies for the mines or the army. We need their souls broken so Solus can harvest them."
He straightened up and smoothing his robes.
"Prepare the defenses, Estella. And the... special welcome we discussed."
"Yeah, yeah. The 'meat shield'. I know." Estella hopped off the railing. "This is going to be messy. I hope they don't stain my new dress. You know how much I hate changing clothes while hunting a potential mate."
As she walked back inside, Edward remained on the balcony. He looked toward the north, toward Loriana.
"Come, Zachary," he whispered, a cold smile curling his lips. "Let's see if your 'ideals' can survive the reality of war."
Down in the square, amidst the weeping and the mud, a lone figure in rags huddled against a wall. He closed his eyes tight, shutting out the nightmare, and clasped his hands together in trembling prayer.
Please... anyone... Gods, Radiant, Demons... I don't care.
Just make it stop.
But for now, the only answer from the heavens was the grey, indifferent clouds drifting over the dying town. The salvation he prayed for was coming, but it carried a sword, not an olive branch.
___
Zachary had expected a convoy from Gallia. Maybe a detachment of guards, a carriage, perhaps even some trumpeters considering the Empire's usual flair for the dramatic.
What he got was a solemn knock on his door, precisely at noon, two days after he sent his reply.
"Enter," he called out, his hand instinctively hovering near the hilt of his sword resting against the desk. Adreana, seated opposite him reviewing supply manifests, stiffened slightly but kept her composure. The Empire's "representative" had arrived faster than a horse could travel.
The door opened, and a woman stepped inside.
She brought with her a silence that seemed to suck the ambient noise out of the room. She was tall, statuesque, dressed in the pristine white vestments of a High Judge of the Ecclesiarchy, but modified for battle. Her robes were fitted, revealing armored greaves of gold and white steel beneath the silk. A red cape, the color of fresh blood, draped over her shoulders, signifying her authority to execute judgment. Her dark hair was braided simply over one shoulder, framing a face that was serenely beautiful yet held an intensity that was almost painful to look at.
In her hand, she held a staff topped with the golden geometric symbol of the Radiant.
She inclined her head, the movement graceful and terrifyingly precise.
"Commander Valente. Your Highness," her voice was soft and melodic, yet it carried the weight of a cathedral bell. "I am Renalla. Judge of the Seventh Order. I have come to answer your call."
Zachary stood immediately. "Judge Renalla. You travel quickly. We expected you... later in the week."
"The suffering of the innocent does not adhere to travel schedules, Commander," Renalla replied, walking further into the room. Her eyes; a pair of pale grey, swept over the maps and reports cluttering the desk with profound sorrow. "I felt the darkness in Anthill the moment I crossed the border. It screams."
She stopped before the desk, looking directly at Zachary. For a moment, he braced himself for the zealousness he usually associated with the Papacy, like the lectures on heresy, the demands for deference, the subtle threats.
But there was none.
Renalla's gaze softened. The steel in her posture melted into something raw and unmistakably human.
"I have seen the reports," she said quietly. "The forced conversions. The defilement of families. The weaponization of faith against the very people it is meant to protect." Her hand tightened around her staff until the leather of her gloves creaked. "It is an abomination. A stain upon the Light itself. Bishop Ingrid weeps for them, as do I."
Zachary blinked, caught off guard. He glanced at Adreana. The Princess was staring at Renalla, her own guard lowering slightly. Adreana had grown up in court; she knew how to spot a lie, a performance.
This wasn't a performance.
"You speak with passion, Judge," Adreana said cautiously. "But the Empire and the Papacy has often... prioritized order over compassion in these matters."
"Order without compassion is tyranny. Faith without love is merely power," Renalla countered instantly. "There are those in the Holy City Avagnon who have forgotten this. Who see your land only as a buffer zone, a chess piece. Bishop Ingrid is not among them. Nor am I."
She took a step closer, her expression pleading. It was jarring to see such vulnerability on the face of an imperial executioner.
"Please understand. I am not here to annex your territory. I am not here to preach to your soldiers or scrutinize your loyalties. I am here because there are children in Anthill watching their parents die for a twisted idol. I am here because, regardless of borders or politics, evil must be destroyed."
Zachary looked into her eyes. He searched for the deception, the hidden agenda he was so sure existed. He saw only a burning, righteous fury tempered by genuine grief. It was the same look he saw in Orwella's eyes when she spoke of justice. The same look he sometimes saw in his own mirror.
She was a true believer. Not in the institution, but in the ideal.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"We share your sentiment, Judge," Zachary said, his voice losing its diplomatic chill. "Anthill is a nightmare. We are mobilizing to retake it, but our forces are stretched thin holding Roake and securing the northern passes."
"Then do not waste resources baby-sitting me," Renalla said. "Give me the coordinates. Tell me where the darkness is thickest."
"We plan to strike the main square," Adreana pointed out on the map. "Intelligence suggests they are holding the bulk of the prisoners there, using them as... leverage."
"Leverage," Renalla spat the word like a curse. She touched the map with a gloved finger. "I see. Then I will go ahead. I will shatter their wards and break their chains. I'll save as many people as I can."
"Alone?" Zachary frowned. "Are you sure? No, I'm not trying to belittle your capability, but the Cult is entrenched. They have high-ranking priests. Enforcers. Thralls."
Renalla's expression shifted. The sorrow remained, but a cold, radiant power began to bleed into the air around her. Her staff hummed, the golden symbol at its apex igniting with a light that hurt the eyes.
"They have shadows, Commander... And I am the Dawn."
She raised her staff. The air in the office rippled instantly. Zachary felt the pressure change and his ears felt like popping.
"I will secure the square. Send your forces to clean up the rats when they scatter. Do not worry about the civilians. Under my light, no harm shall come to them."
"Wait—" Zachary started, realizing she was about to leave immediately.
Renalla smiled. "Thank you for trusting me, Zachary. Your Highness Princess Adreana."
With a flash of light, she was gone.
There was no sound of casting, no incantation. Just a blinding burst of white light that flooded the room. When Zachary blinked the spots from his vision, the office was empty.
Adreana stared at the spot where the Judge had stood, her mouth slightly open.
"She... teleported?" Adreana whispered. "Without a circle? Without a catalyst?"
"High-speed spatial displacement... That's Seventh Order magic. She wasn't boasting." Zachary said with awe before turned to the door and threw it open, startling the guard outside.
"Messengers! To the barracks! Tell Sylvanne to mobilize the Vanguard! Tell Stark to get the cavalry moving! The Judge has started the party without us, and I'll be damned if we let her fight alone!"
_____
The Merchant Quarter of Loriana had undergone a transformation. What was once a collection of dusty stalls selling turnips and rough-spun wool was now a riot of color and spice, largely thanks to the influx of foreign traders seeking safety within the mercenary-controlled walls.
In a quiet corner sheltered by hanging tapestries of crimson and gold, the air smelled sweet with the rich, aromatic perfume of apple tobacco and roasted coffee beans.
Asep sat cross-legged on a plush cushion, a brass hose in his hand. He took a long, slow drag from the complex glass water-pipe, a shisha bubbling softly on the low table between them. He held the smoke for a moment, letting the flavor coat his tongue, before exhaling a thick, white cloud that drifted lazily toward the ceiling.
"Man," Asep murmured, watching the smoke swirl. "This hits different. Smoother than the paper ones."
Rashid, the Qurtuban captain of the caravan guard chuckled. He reclined opposite Asep, nursing a tiny cup of thick, black coffee that smelled like it could wake the dead. He wore loose, comfortable robes of white linen, having shed his armor for the evening.
"It is the breath of the desert, my friend," Rashid said. "In the Undying Empire, especially around the Maghreb regions, we say that time does not exist when the pipe is lit. The world outside stops, and only conversation remains."
He gestured around the tented enclosure his master, Merchant-Lord Hakim ibn Idris, had set up.
"Lord Hakim has good taste," Rashid commented, sipping his coffee. "He says this town... Loriana... it has the Rukh. The Spirit. It reminds him of the outer rings of the Grand Bazaar of Al-Qisariyya, before the midday heat sets in. Money flows here like water in an oasis. And where money flows, civilization follows."
Asep nodded, passing the hose to Rashid. "It's definitely getting crowded. I saw a guy selling 'Holy Water' that I'm pretty sure was just well water with glitter in it. And another guy selling skewers of... something. I didn't ask what animal it was, but it tasted good."
"Probably the runner birds," Rashid laughed, taking the hose. "A delicacy in some parts, if you spice it enough."
He took a puff, his dark eyes studying Asep over the bubbling water. The mercenary captain had always been curious about this strange, dark-skinned man who fought like a street brawler but thought like an engineer.
"You know, Asep, or should I call you Ridwan?" Rashid mused, rolling the sounds around in his mouth. "Your name... it rings familiar bells. In the tongues of the South, 'Asep'—sounds much like As-Saif. The Sword. Or 'Asif', the legendary court vizier of Solomon. And 'Ridwan'... well, that is a name sacred in our lands. The Guardian of the Gates of Paradise."
"O-oh... Yeah, I guess." Asep gulped, quite surprised by the coincidence... Wait, Ridwan was an Arabic name. Of course an Islam-inspired nation would have that name. It might be a coincidence, but Asep actually meant 'handsome' in his own tongue. And Muhammad Ridwan was just what his late father had given him.
Rashid leaned forward slightly, his gaze piercing but friendly.
"And your skin... it holds the kiss of the sun, like the people of the Qurtuba coast. Or perhaps the Maghreb? Or even the river-folk of Masr, like myself?" He tilted his head. "Tell me, brother. Which wind blew you so far north? Are you a son of the Sands who lost his way?"
Asep froze for a fraction of a second. The question was inevitable, really. In a continent of pale northerners and fair-skinned mid-landers, he stood out.
"It's... complicated," Asep said, leaning back and scratching the back of his neck. "To be honest, I don't really remember much about where I came from."
He let his gaze drift to the tapestry, feigning a distant look.
"I was brought north when I was just a kid. Slave traders, maybe? Or refugees? It's all a blur of cold nights and moving wagons. I grew up scrapping in the alleys of... well, everywhere. Never really had a home until I ended up here."
It was the standard "Tragic Orphan Backstory #4," vague enough to be plausible, common enough to be ignored.
Rashid nodded slowly, his expression softening into sympathy.
"Ah. A child of the road, then," Rashid sighed, staring into his coffee cup. "The world is cruel to the small. Many of my kin have been taken by the northern raids in the past. It is a sorrow that stains the history of this continent."
He looked back up at Asep, raising his cup in a small toast.
"But blood calls to blood, my friend. Whether you remember the sands or not, you carry the spirit of the South. You fight with passion. You build with cunning. And you appreciate good tobacco. That is enough for me to call you kinsman."
"Thanks, Rashid," Asep took the hose back, feeling a genuine warmth that had nothing to do with the shisha. "I... appreciate that. Really."
For a moment, they sat in comfortable silence, listening to the bustle of the market outside and the gentle bubbling of the pipe.
"Is Asep here?" Clara's voice suddenly cut through the barrier.
Asep glanced at the tent flap. "Yeah. In here, Clara. Come in."
The flap lifted, and Clara poked her head inside. She blinked, her nose twitching at the unfamiliar scents.
"Whoa... it smells like a fruit salad exploded in here," she commented while stepping inside. She was dressed in her usual light armor, but she looked agitated. "Sorry to interrupt your fruit-smoking session. But Zachary is looking for everyone. Like, everyone everyone."
"Huh? What happened?" Asep didn't move yet, just raising an eyebrow. "Are the Slimes unionizing again?"
"No," Clara shook her head, her face turned serious. "The Papal Envoy arrived. A Judge. And she just teleported to Anthill."
Asep nearly choked on his smoke. "She what?"
"Teleported. Alone. To liberate the town by herself," Clara said, sounding equal parts impressed and horrified. "Zachary is mobilizing the Vanguard to back her up before she gets herself killed. Or kills everyone else."
Asep sighed while putting the hose down. He looked at the glowing coals of the shisha with profound regret.
"Just when the vibes were getting immaculate," he grumbled, standing up and stretching his stiff back. "Can't a man have five minutes without a zealous super-priest causing an international incident?"
Rashid stood as well, draining his coffee in one gulp. He reached for his scimitar belt hanging on the tent pole.
"Peace is fleeting in war, my friend, but look on the bright side. If this Judge is as powerful as they say... perhaps we will not have to do much fighting."
"Or we'll just be cleaning up a very large, very holy mess." Asep said, checking his brass knuckles,
He turned to Clara. "Alright, Sparky. Lead the way. Let's go save the Judge from her own hubris."
"Don't call me Sparky!" Clara pouted, but she was already turning to leave. "Come on! Sylvanne is yelling at everyone!"
"Of course she is," Asep muttered, following her out into the cold northern air, leaving the warmth of the desert behind.
___
In the town square, Zachary had gathered the Coalition leaders. Sylvanne stood with her greatsword, looking bored but ready to kill. Stark was helmeted, checking his lance. Rashid and Vsevolod stood side by side, an odd pair of desert and ice. Erik and his Nords were already shouting drinking songs, treating the upcoming battle like a pub crawl.
Atop his horse, Zachary looked at the group with a stern expression.
"The situation is simple," Zachary announced, his voice carrying clearly over the murmuring mercenaries. "Judge Renalla has engaged the Cultists in Anthill alone. Her light will draw every monster in that town to the main square like moths to a flame."
He gestured with his longsword.
"Our job is to help her cleanse Anthill from the grasp of the Eclipse. But... We know these Cultists are not stupid. The moment a large force leaves this town, they might plan to attack us. So, we'll split our forces."
He looked at Vsevolod.
"Vsevolod, you and the Iron Cross will hold this town. Sylvanne, you will lead the militia and other volunteers to patrol the perimeter. I don't want any surprises when we return."
Vsevolod slammed a fist to his chest. "Loriana will not fall, Commander."
Sylvanne frowned. "Wait, I'm stuck on babysitting duty?! Again?! Come on, Zach! Let me chop some fanatics!"
"Your presence here is a deterrent, if the Cult tries anything cheeky while we're gone, I need someone scary enough to make them regret being born. You are the scariest person I know."
Sylvanne considering this. Then, a terrifying grin spread across her face.
"Flattery will get you everywhere, Boss. Fine. I'll stay. But if nobody attacks, I'm doubling my tab at the Tankard."
"Deal," Zachary agreed instantly. Then, he turned to the rest of the group. "For Anthill, we need speed and precision. I'll lead the Vanguard. Stark, your group is with me. Erik, can your boys run fast?"
"We have our own mounts in the stable, Commander! We ride the winter-wolves! They are hungry!"
"Good. Rashid, can your men be mobile support?"
"We ride on horseback, Commander. The wind is our ally."
"Excellent. Then listen closely. We ride hard. We hit their flanks while the Judge distracts the main body. We secure the civilians, purge the leadership, and break their hold on the south. Is that clear?"
There was a roar of affirmation.
"Then mount up!" Zachary commanded, wheeling his horse around. "Let's cleanse Anthill!"
As the mercenaries scrambled to their mounts and wagons, Asep slipped from the rest and made his way to the garage beside the bakery. It was a repurposed bedroom that now housed a sleek three-wheeled motorcycle. Treste had cranked up the two-cylinder engine to produce up to 15 horsepower, which was quite the upgrade.
It looked more like a bicycle with an engine, combined with a pair of slime-coated wheels. At the side of the back, there was an additional wheel, making it look like a trike with a sidecar.
"Yo, Asep! Can I ride with you on that thing?" Karl appeared out of nowhere with stupid grin on his face. He was wearing his leather armor, with a spear in his hand.
"Sure, but don't touch any buttons, Karl. It'll eject the sidecar."
"What is 'sidecar'? Some kind of beverage?"
"No, it's— Ah, nevermind. Hop in, we're moving out!"
Asep gripped the starter rope, a makeshift loop of braided hemp sticking out from the side of the engine block that looked less like advanced technology and more like a pull-cord for a stubborn lawnmower.
"Alright, Karl... Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times," Asep muttered, cigarette bobbing between his lips as he gave the rope a sharp yank.
Hrrrrn-PUT-PUT-PUT-PUT!
The twin-cylinder engine sparked to life, coughing a small cloud of smoke. The chassis vibrated with a rough, mechanical sounds that sounded distinctly out of place amidst the neighing of horses or other sounds of beast of burdens and the clanking of armor. The entire contraption shuddered like a wet dog shaking itself dry.
Karl, sitting in the sidecar—which was essentially a reinforced wooden crate bolted to a third wheel grinned like a madman. He patted the side of the box affectionately.
"She shakes like a nervous virgin!" Karl shouted over the engine noise, adjusting his grip on his spear. "This is fantastic! Does it shoot fire?"
"No, but you can shoot a crossbow bolt. There's a pintle mount right there with different types we've developed. We'll give those bastards a taste of mobile warfare!" Asep revved the engine, checking the brass gauges that jittered near the handlebars. Pressure was holding. Temperature was stable. "Hang on! We're rolling!"
He kicked the transmission lever with his heel, then, the trike lurched forward. the slime-coated tires biting into the cobblestones before stopping near the crowd that was preparing to leave.
"Is that... Is that a modified Sir Reginald Starley's Rover?"
An Avalon Knight who happened to stand nearby atop his horse, his face hidden behind his steel visor, asked a question to his colleague.
"No... Reginald's bicycle has no steam engine attached." Asep answered, pulling the throttle to make a Vroom sound. "This, my friend, is better. Meet the Davidson Mark I."
"Davidson? Who's David?" Another knight asked, utterly confused.
Before Asep could answer, Zachary raised his sword into the air, silencing the murmur of the troops. The entire town square collectively held its breath, the tension of the impending march replacing the chaotic excitement of preparation.
"Forward!" Zachary commanded, his voice sharp and carrying over the crowd like a war horn. "To Anthill! We ride with the Light or without it, we will crush them!"
A ripple of movement surged through the Coalition forces. Horses whinnied, iron armor clanked, and wagons laden with supplies groaned into motion. The thunder of hundreds of hooves and claws hitting stone began to build, a rising drumbeat of war.
"YEE-HAW!" Karl shrieked, firing the crossbow into the air—missing a pigeon by inches as Asep gunned the trike's engine.
The vehicle shot forward with a surprising burst of speed, weaving between the flanks of the cavalry and kicking up a spray of dust. The knights looked down from their destriers, a mixture of alarm and awe on their faces as the sputtering metal beast overtook them.
"Later, slow-pokes!" Asep yelled, the wind whipping at his face, his cigarette now become a tiny glowing ember. He felt a fierce wild grin stretch across his face—the thrill of speed, the vibration of the engine beneath him, the sheer absurdity of riding a motorcycle into medieval combat. It felt like home.
___