Chapter I
Divinitas
The chains rang out like a symphony as I stepped into the ritual chamber. It was not music for the living but rather for those who are destined for death. Somewhere in the dark above, Iron dragged across stone, and a slow and deliberate chorus reverberated off the etched stone walls. The sound lingered long after it should have died, clinging to the ribs of the chamber as if it were incense. I stepped over the thick black sludge that filled the cracked symbols carved into the stone floor; the liquid clotted the seams and pulsed faintly under the beaming light of the mana crystal. The apprentices were told by the Enforcers that it was runoff from the lower vaults. If it were fresh, the stench of iron would fill the chamber, and it would glow red. Through the open skylight far overhead in the center of the massive cathedral, I could see the sky, which showed a starless blue. Dawn had not yet broken. The hour before first light is a generous one. Men talk more when their God isn’t watching.
Fidas and Karnus stood guard at the circle's edge, ash grey cloaks swaying in the thin draft. Fidas was impossible to miss; he stood taller than any man I had ever known. His frame was large enough to block a doorway whole. Gold shone when he smiled, which was seldom. He had paid for those teeth himself, or so he claimed, though the left hand to the Overlord, Lucreitus, no doubt kept tally somewhere in his ledgers. Fidas wore the sigil of Lucreitus at his throat, a thin chain of coins fused into a circle. Wealth had its own piety within our order, and Lucreitus its most devout apostle. If Lucreitus was his master, Fidas was his guard dog. Karnus, by contrast, seemed scarcely old enough to grow a beard. His brand was still raw within the flesh, an angry mark against his pale skin. The scar showed a sword piercing a flame. Ignatius had moved quickly before my order of Paladins had the chance. That scheming Ignatius always seemed to be one step ahead, perhaps due to his close relationship with the Overlord. Karnus clenched his jaw and narrowed his gaze. There was an eagerness in him, yet it was poorly hidden beneath a veil of discipline. He seemed as though he had something to prove. To whom, I could not say. To the Warlocks like Ignatius and Lucreitus, perhaps, or maybe to the one that watches us like insects.
Neither Fidas nor Karnus looked at me as I approached them. They had been taught well. I prefer their indifference to the hatred that their superior harbours against me. The prisoner knelt at the center of the stone circle, grooves cut into its surface, stained with old blood. The runes were older than the kingdom of Cordia, which lay above us and if the Warlocks spoke true, older than even the Order of Divinitas itself. The prisoner’s green cloak had been stripped from his body; it lay burned at the edge of the chamber, like shed skin. A white cloth covered his eyes and was wrapped cruelly around the back. He was a seer from The Order of Terra, a worshipper of Gaia. The shackles gnawed at his wrists. and blood crusted his knuckles. The man had fought. I glanced at Karnus, and the boy’s lip bore a split. The air in the chamber felt heavier, an oppressing force. A Warlock was present. I could not see or hear them, but I knew they were there. Their presence lay over me like an executioner’s axe at the nape, subtle, waiting and patient. Ignatius would gain nothing from this; he already had his hound at the door. Lucreitus would announce himself like the dramatic pixie he is. It must be one of the other two. The seer shifted as I stepped closer. Though blindfolded, he turned his face towards me and spoke.
“They told me you would come”.
“And who might they be?” I replied
“The roots and the soil beneath your Orders crude stone.”
There was a faint shift in the air, amusement, perhaps from wherever the Warlock stood concealed. I studied the man who knelt before me, feeling the power that the Warlocks feel when I kneel. Dirt still clung to the man’s nails, and faint white tattoos wound up his arms, half hidden by drying blood. Symbols of Earth, Gaia’s children believed in renewal; they had somehow forgotten that even soil feeds on rot.
“What is your name, son of Gaia?”
“Noctua.”
“Tell me why you crossed our border, Noctua? The pact clearly states we must remain behind our own lines.”
“A pact you Divinitas never followed.”
“Speak the truth, Noctua, or Karnus may become restless.”
Fidas let out a low and calculated breath through his nose. Karnus shifted uncomfortably in his stance. I knew the boy could not handle torture, but he must play along. His master would whip him for cowardice otherwise. The Black sludge trembled slightly at my feet. Noctua grinned and tilted his head.
“You are not the worst of them, merely a blade”, he said softly.
I knelt beside him, close enough to smell the iron.
“And what does that make you?”
“The seed.”
I looked at him inquisitively. He was not scared; there was a strange sense of calm around him as if his fate was already sealed.
“Listen closely, Paladin. I came here looking for one of our young apprentices; the roots led me here”
“Impossible, we haven’t engaged with your kind since the last tourney over twenty years ago.
“I found the apprentice with Pha-“The chains fell silent, Noctua fell silent. I felt a hand touch my shoulder. I turn and see the Overlord, dressed in a black robe and purple signet ring. His bright yellow eyes pierced my soul like a spear. He was not as big as Fidas, but his presence was far larger. Karnus and Fidas had disappeared. How long had the Overlord been there? Was he the Warlock watching? For now, I knelt, my knee hitting the floor hard enough to draw blood. I felt his attention sharpen on the prisoner. His voice broke the silence like thunder.
“High Paladin?”
I immediately stood to attention, being sure not to meet his gaze.
“Yes, Overlord”
“Leave the rest of the interrogation to me."
“But sir, I could hardly ask you to dirty your hands with this fil- “
“Go.”
The word sent shivers down my spine. It was not merely fear but rather recognition, akin to a slave and master. I had felt this weight before, but only twice and both times men had died before dawn. I turned and left the circle without another word; whatever would follow was no longer mine to command. The chamber doors dwarfed even Fidas and were wrought Iron bound in black oak, heavy enough that it took two enforcers to move them. Tonight, they stood wide open. As I crossed the doorway, the air shifted, Karnus and Fidas were there, no longer standing but on their knees. Fidas, who had once alone held a battering ram against the barred gate of Vrudard. Sweat streamed down his temples, cutting pale lines through the dust on his skin; his gold teeth were clenched, not in defiance but in pure strain. Karnus somehow fared worse. The boy had both palms flat against the ground, head bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the blackened cracks between the stones. His breath came in ragged pulls. It was their first glimpse of the Overlord; they might have met his eyes instinctively and paid the price.
I did not dare look back into the chamber. It is a courtesy one learns early, if one wants to keep their thoughts intact. The mind has a way of reshaping what the eyes cannot comprehend. Instead, I stepped through the doors and pulled them shut. The hinges groaned like a wounded beast. For a moment, there was silence, then the pressure deepened even through the safety of the behemoth-like doors. Then I heard his voice.
“Where is the heart?”
His voice was not loud; it did not need to be. The command carried through the stone as if the chamber itself had spoken them. There was no age in that voice, no tremor and no breath in between. Inside the Noctua answered, I could not make out the words. There was a long pause, then suddenly a sound came. It was not a scream; I have heard many screams, but this was different. It was a sort of tearing, wet and loud. Fidas made a low, involuntary sound beside me; it was between a groan and a prayer. Karnus squeezed his eyes shut as if darkness could shield him from what unfolded beyond the door. A voice called out once more.
“Where is the heart?”
This time, there was weeping. The seer’s voice broke, words tumbling over one another. I caught fragments, grove… red…river… before they dissolved into sobbing. The black sludge in the corridor’s cracks began to creep, inching toward the seam beneath the chamber doors as if drawn by thirst. I watched as it gathered there, stunted by fear? Intrigue? All I know is that I cannot move; if I do, I might lose a foot. There was a longer pause, then a sound, a crack as if his spine was being separated from his body. Karnus gagged, and Fidas, like me, did not dare move, but I witnessed his shoulders tremble. When the Overlord spoke again, there was something almost gentle in his voice.
“And, where is he?”
The answer came so quickly that I didn’t manage to catch it. There was a sudden rush of air from beneath the doors, hot and the smell of copper. The sludge surged forward, seeping through the cracks and further into the chamber. The pressure lifted, though not entirely. Fidas exhaled first, a harsh and shuddering breath. Karnus slumped sideways, catching himself before he struck the floor. As I thought it was finished, something heavy struck the stone inside the chamber. Once. Twice. And then stillness once again. The doors did not open. I looked down at the empty cracks that were once filled with black liquid and thought of the seer’s words: You are only the blade, he said. Perhaps he was right, but blades are useless without a hand to guide them, and the hand that guided mine had just found its heart.
Chapter II
Phaedra
It has been two days since I interrogated the seer, Noctua. Two days since the Overlord asked for the heart. It has been hard to sleep. The Warlocks call what lingers after an audience with him residue. As if the weight that settles into the bones were no more than ash on a sleeve, like it can be simply brushed away. It cannot.
There is a knock at my chamber door; it is not loud but measured. Whoever stands beyond it knows better than to pound. My feet feel heavier than they should as I rise; the stone beneath them is cold, though a brazier burns low near the wall. The flame gutters as I pass, bending away from me as though I carry a draft the room cannot contain. I still feel him, not his presence exactly, as he has long since withdrawn, but the memory of it. A pressure behind the eyes, a thinning of breath. As though some part of me had been peeled back and not properly set in place again.
The knock comes a second time, I cross my chamber and lift the hatch. The hinges groan open, echoing my own joints. Tristis stands in the corridor, his hair as white as ever, falling loose about his shoulders in pale strands that catch the torchlight like frost. It makes him look older than he is, or perhaps younger. With Tristis, it is difficult to tell. His eyes are purple, not the soft violet of spring blooms, but the deep bruised shade that lingers after a blow. The Warlocks say it is a mark of his particular attunement. I have never cared to ask what it is. He now brandishes a new scar across those eyes; it runs from brow to cheek, a clean, deliberate line that parts his right eyebrow and disappears into the hollow beneath it. The flesh is still pink at the edges. Tristis begins to speak in his gentle, calming tone.
“You let him live longer than you needed to, brother.”
“I did not let him live”, I bite back.
“No, I guess you did not.”
He studies me in silence. His gaze lingers on my throat, where the sigil of Phaedra rests beneath the skin. He pushes past me into the room and sits along the edge of the window.
“You look thinner”, he observes
“It has been a year, Tristis. I am bound to change.”
“You feel it still, don’t you?”
“I do”.
He nods once, as though that satisfies something private. The corridor he entered from is now empty. Torches flicker along the walls, their smoke coiling upward toward vaulted ceilings carved with old sigils. As I focus on the black liquid on the floor, remembering that day, Tristis begins to speak again.
“Lord Lucreitus sent Sanguis to confirm the location. She found it. The Order of Terra lay deep within Distos Forest. The reason we never found it before is that we needed a seer’s eyes to gain access.”
“And?”
“And we have been chosen to infiltrate their Grove, Warlock Ignatius told me today.”
There is no triumph in his tone, only inevitability. For a moment, neither of us speaks; somewhere distant, a bell tolls the hour.
“You did well,” Tristis says at last.
Praise from him is rarer than the Warlocks. It is quite unsettling.
“The scar?” I ask, nodding toward his face.
He touches it silently, almost absently.
“A reminder, Ignatius wished to see how deeply my conviction runs.”
“And how deep does it go?”
A faint smile curves his mouth.
“Deep enough”
I study him more closely as he speaks. The cut was clean; it was not punishment, it was a test by that sick bastard.
“Ignatius positioning himself.”
“He always is.”
“What does that money-hungry tyrant make of this?”
“You should respect the Warlocks more, brother; they lead us and could have your head with one word. This is why you have the brand of a Paladin instead of being in one of their Auxills.”
I look at him with a sense of disappointment. My brother has become a pawn in the Warlocks games. Something I never wanted for him.
“But Lord Lucreitus is currently pooling money, for what I cannot say.” Tristis continues.
“He wants to cover up what we are about to do.”
“We are going to weaken their heart. What is there to cover up?”
“If that’s what you believe, you are far more naïve than I thought, Tristis.”
Tristis purple eyes hold mine, the pause between us grows ever larger.
“Why are you here, Tristis?”
“The Overlord has not spoken since he disposed of the seer; that troubles the Warlocks, they fear his silence more than command.”
That, at least, I can understand. When the Overlord speaks, there is a sense of direction. When he does not, there is a possibility.
“What do you fear?” I ask.
For the first time since arriving, Tristis looks past me, into the darkness. He begins speaking slowly.
“I fear… That the seer was not the only one who heard Gaia’s plea.”
The brazier flame sputters again, and I feel the weight in my chest shift once again.
“You believe there is another?”
“Those plant fuckers rarely act alone.”
The bell rings again in the distance, somewhere below us, beneath stone and soil, something shifts. Tristis steps away from the window and passes the door threshold again.
“The Warlocks convene at dusk; they will want you present, High Paladin.”
“Whatever you say, dog.”
He inclines his head and turns away, ash-grey cloak whispering along the floor. I shut the door and lean against it once he is gone; the room suddenly feels much smaller. Two days since Noctua knelt in the circle. Two days since the Overlord asked for the heart, and now I am being sent to destroy it. I press my hand against the sigil at my throat; it is warm again.
I steel myself before the mirror, the man who looks back at me seems unchanged. The scar at my throat lies quiet beneath the skin. My eyes are clear and my hand steady. Only my pulse gives me away. I draw on my cloak, fastening the clasp at my collar. The fabric is heavier than it should be, lined in black thread spun through sigils that only the Warlocks fully understand. It settles across my shoulder like an obligation made physical. I begin to think of Tristis, as he once was. A boy with ink-stained fingers and a smile too quick for this place. He had moved through the lower halls like a shadow even then, clever in ways that were not clear. He had beaten men three times his size in the training yards, not with strength, but with patience. I had tried to claim him for the Paladin sect, but he rejected it and went to Ignatius. The thought leaves a bitterness in me that I do not often indulge. It is a dangerous thing, resentment. It festers. I leave my chambers before it can.
The corridors leading to the high hall are narrower than the others, the ceilings arching like ribs overhead. Torches gutter along the walls, their flames bending inward as I pass. The black seep that fills the cracks in the stone thickens the closer I draw to the centre of the Order’s keep. My heart begins to race; it is an old but useful instinct. The Warlocks may be sending me to my death or elevating me; I do not know which is worse. The doors to the hall stand before me, taller than any man, carved with scenes of conquest and consecration. Roots strangling cities and crowns cast into flame. I press both palms against the wood and push; the doors begin to part with a groan. The air inside is thinner; he is here. Sound seems to withdraw around the Overlord, as if unwilling to exist too loudly in his presence. Even my own breath feels too intrusive. As I step forward, the doors close behind me. The high hall stretches long and dark, lit only by braziers set along the walls. At its far end rise three thrones upon a dais of black stone. The Warlocks sit upon it. The overlord at the center. Ignatius to the right and Lucreitus to the left. The dais itself is not entirely stone. Black tar-like substance pools and shifts around its base, oozing slowly as though the earth beneath were bleeding upward. It gleams in the firelight, viscous and alive, curling around the thrones’ feet in languid spirals.
The Overlord does not move; he never seems to. His form is cloaked in layered darkness, robes heavy but distinct, his purple ring shines within the darkness. His face is obscured, not by a veil but by something less definable, a distortion, subtle yet constant, that makes the eye slide away if it lingers too long, but his eyes are clear, a piercing yellow that rivals even the sun's brightness. Ignatius sits upright, slender hands resting lightly on the arms of his throne. His hair falls dark against his shoulders, his features sharp, almost delicate. There is always a faint smile at the edge of his mouth, as though he knows a secret no one else has yet uncovered. Lucreitus is broader, rings gleaming on nearly every finger, his robes are trimmed in fine embroidery, thread catching the light in quiet flashes. Even seated, he seems to calculate. Below Ignatius stand Tristis and Karnus. Tristis's white hair spills over his shoulders, his new scar a pale line against his skin. His purple eyes are lowered but not submissive, merely patient. Karnus stands beside him, spine straight, brand visible at his throat. There is pride in his stance now. Below Lucreitus stand Fidas and Sanguis. Fidas giant hands are clasped in front of him. His gold teeth flash briefly as he adjusts his jaw. Sanguis, on the other hand, seems modest next to Fidas, her red hair stands out, and her gaze pierces me almost as much as the Warlocks. Little is known about her as she is the freshest within the order, completing her Naming ceremony mere weeks ago.
I approach the dais and kneel. Stone bites into my knee through the fabric of my cloak. I lower my head, not so far as to appear craven, not so high to seem defiant. The silence stretches and coils around me; it is thick and deliberate. Then Ignatius speaks.
“High Paladin, you have been busy.”
I lift my gaze just enough to meet his.
“I serve the three masters.”
Ignatius smile widens faintly. Lucreitus leaned forward, rings clicking softly against the carved arm of his throne. Each stone, set in gold, caught the brazier's light in careful flashes, wealth made visible. Power measured in glitter and glamour.
“The Heart of the Woods is weakened, Gaia is weak.”
The words seemed to settle into the hall like embers. Ignatius did not look at him; his gaze remained on me.
“They entered our domain and sullied our land with the idea of Gaia”, Ignatius proclaimed.
“They have already sent a seer; they might send Titus himself next”, Lucreitus replied.
At the name, something flickered behind Ignatius’ eyes. Annoyance, interest and calculation. Titus, the Patriarch of The Order of Terra. A man whose name was spoken in the same tone as famine or storm within our order. Ignatius folded his hands lightly in his lap.
“We must strike before they do, wouldn’t you agree, Paladin?
Now the eyes of the hall fully settle upon me. Ignatius’ gaze was probing, and Lucreitus’ gaze was heavy upon my shoulders. Even Tristus, standing below, watched without turning his head. Karnus’ jaw was tight; Fidas stood immovable. I realised that this was no request, it was a placement. They had already decided; the question was not whether we would strike, the question was whether I would bend. If I disagreed or so much as hesitated in front of the Overlord. The tar at the base of the dais lapped once against the stone, as if a reminder.
“Yes, Lord Ignatius”
A faint smile ghosted across his mouth.
“Now that we are all in agreement, we can tell you why we summoned you, Paladin”
Lucreitus took up the thread.
“We will be sending you, Tristis and Sanguine to Distos Forest. You are to move unseen, undetected. You will poison their Heart Tree and withdraw before they understand what has been done”
Distos. The name alone conjured images of twisted trunks and silver fog, of roots that tangled like veins beneath the soil. The forest was said to whisper. Before I could respond, the air in the hall changed. It was not gradual but instant. The braziers guttered low, the tar surged, rising higher against the dais as though drawn upward by unseen gravity.
“No.”
The word did not echo; it bore a weight that crushed. The force of it drove into my chest like a mailed fist. My knee slipped against the stone. Karnus gaspe,d and even Fidas shifted uncomfortably. The Overlord had spoken. The sound was not loud in the manner of thunder. It was vast. It filled the spaces between flesh and breath.
“Ignatius,”
The name seemed to unmake the air around it.
“You shall go too.”
For the first time I had known him, Ignatius’ composure fractured.
“My Lord, my efforts are better spent here-“
The tar writhed.
“I, Phaedra, command you to join the Orphan Order, unless you mean to question me?”
Phaedra, the true name of our Lord, I had almost forgotten it. It fell into the hall like a blade dropped edge-first. Ignatius lips parted for a heartbeat, no more; there was a bare calculation in his eyes. Then it suddenly vanished, replaced by a bow of his head so precise it might have been rehearsed.
“I would never; I shall gladly join their expedition.”
The tar settled, and the braziers steadied. Breath returned to the room in small, cautious increments. The Orphan Order, so that is what were now, no longer a Paladin, Enforcer or Warlock but Orphans. Cast from the centre and sent into the dark abyss, to carry out the dirty work. Lucreitus’ rings clicked once more.
“Then it is decided, you shall use the tunnels to reach the edge of the forest and proceed on foot from there. Sanguine should know the way.”
Tristis’ purple gaze lifted, meeting mine across the hall. There was something there, anticipation, no, a warning. Above us, the Overlord did not move, but I felt his attention settle upon me once more. He must have sent Ignatius for a reason, to punish him? Or maybe this is a test. Whatever the reason, this was no mere poisoning. I understood, kneeling there beneath the shifting tar and weight of Phaedra’s will, that I am on my own when we enter the woods.
Chapter III
Terra
Ignatius gathered us in the lower vaults before dusk. There were no banners, a ceremony or witnesses beyond the stone and shadow that surrounded us.
“We travel light,” he said.
Which, from Ignatius, meant something altogether heavier. We had been instructed to leave our usual weapons behind. I felt the absence of my greatsword more keenly than I expected. The blade had been with me since my Naming ceremony; its steel was folded thrice, edge broad enough to split a shield and bone alike. It was neither subtle nor quiet. I liked how honest it was, but this was neither the time nor the place for honesty. In its stead, Ignatius presented the daggers. They lay upon a slab of black stone between us, two for each of us, their metal darker than night yet faintly luminous at the edges. Not polished. Not reflective, the surface seemed to swallow light rather than catch it.
“Enchanted by my own hand,” Ignatius said, almost lazily.
He lifted one between his slender fingers. The moment his skin touched the hilt, a flame crept along the blade; it was not red or gold but rather a low-burning green. Sickly and luminous. It did not flick as normal fire does; it held steady, as if the air itself fed it. I had heard of this flame, never seen it, but they say that Ignatius’ fire does not die. That once summoned, it lingers until he wills it gone. He let the green fire dance for a moment before closing his hand around the blade, and it vanished instantly.
“Steel will not be enough against The Order of Terra, their order draws its power from roots older than our entire order, these will pierce where steel cannot”. Ignatius declared.
I stepped forward and claimed my pair. The hilts were ice cold, and the metal seemed to hum faintly against my palm, a vibration so subtle I might have imagined it. I tested the weight, and it was balanced and precise. They were for work that happened close enough to hear a man’s breath leave him.
“My greatsword would not fit a secret such as this.”
Ignatius mouth twitched faintly.
“No, it would not.”
Sanguine approached them. She had said little since I last saw her within the hall, but she rarely did unless compelled. Her presence is quieter than Ignatius’s but no less deliberate. In her arms, she carried a bundle wrapped in dark cloth.
“My master sends his regards”, she said, voice smooth as if it were silk.
She laid the bundle upon the slab and unfolded it. Masks spilt over the slab, four of them. They were black as the night sky, and each was shaped into the likeness of a screaming devil. The mouths were open in a silent agony, teeth bared and elongated. The eye sockets were narrow and slanted, rimmed in gold leaf that caught the torchlight in thin, cruel gleams. Fine etchings traced the brows and cheekbones, sigils subtly interwoven.
“They were crafted by the dwarves of old. The sigils are my master’s handiwork, when worn they will blur your scent and cover your footprints.”
I lifted one to eye level, and it was lighter than I expected. When I turned it over, the inside was lined in a thin layer of dark velvet, cool against my fingers. The gold trim did not flake. It gleamed as if newly burnished, though I knew better than to assume. Tristis took his mask without comment, turning it once in his pale hands before securing it at his side. Ignatius watched us all.
“You will not use your names in the forest, do not speak them, and you will not think them.”
“What if we must?” I asked
His eyes meet mine.
“Then you must pray the trees are not listening.”
“When we reach the edge of the forest, Sanguine and I will split off to follow our own quest; then you and Tristis must poison the heart.” Ignastius continued.
“This was not what the Overlord commanded” , I say.
“Are you questioning me?”
I might hate them, but I knew better than to question a Warlock.
“No, we will poison the heart at your command.”
A silence settled over us, heavy as earth. I slid the daggers into my sheaths at my waist and brought the mask to my face. Diotos forest waited above us, its roots tangled deep. As we rose up through the secret tunnels, the other three donned their masks. We reached the forest, and Sanguine and Ignatius split off towards the left. I paid them no mind; we had our own quest. We dashed through the winding trees almost blindly, and the thick fog blocked our view. My mind could not wander from Ignatius. Where is he? Is the heart not what is most important?
We rose through the secret tunnels long before dawn, the stone passage pressing close on either side like a throat swallowing us whole. Moisture beaded along the walls, roots had forced their way through the ceiling in pale, twisted veins, brushing our shoulders as we climbed. One by one, the others donned their masks. Tristis was first; he tied the black devil across his face with a practised calm, the gold trim catching faint torchlight before vanishing to shadow. Sanguine waited until the last quarter of the tunnel, then lifted hers with reverence, as if placing a crown. The world dulled the moment it settled over my face. Sound seemed to travel farther away. My own breath echoed faintly within the hollow mask. The mask smelled faintly of iron and smoke.
We emerged into the Distos forest beneath a sky still waiting for the sun. Fog lay thick between the trees, curling low along the roots. The trunks were tall and gnarled, bark split and pale as bone. No birds stirred, no insects sang. Distos did not seem to welcome us. Sanguine and Ignatius paused only long enough to exchange a glance. Ignatius immediately turned left and disappeared within the fog. Sanguine inclined her head and followed him as he left. I did not call after him; we had our own task. Tristis moved first, and I followed. We dashed between the winding trees, our footsteps hidden due to the mask. The fog thickened as we pressed on, reducing the forest to a shifting silhouette and sudden trunks looming out of nothing. The daggers at my hips felt lighter than steel would be. My greatsword would have sung in a place like this.
The Heart Tree of Gaia did not stand openly in the woods like a monument. The order of Terra had long ago learned discretion. The Heart was not in the forest; it was beneath it, hidden within their sanctum. The Order of Terra carved their strongholds into the bones of the earth. Stone halls beneath roots and riverbanks. Their mages and seers guarded the living core of the forest not with walls alone, but with wards layered like skin upon skin. We crested a shallow ridge, and the fog thinned just enough for stone to shape through the trees. There, a structure of pale granite, half swallowed by roots and moss. Carvings lined its archway, spirals of vine and sigils of soil, etched so deeply the grooves were dark with age. Lanterns glowed faintly at its entrance, hooded and careful. Two figures stood guard, cloaked in green; one bore a staff capped with a crystal and the other a curved blade etched with earthen runes. They must be Terran sentries. I had heard tales that claimed they were just as good as our Enforcers.
Behind the sentries, beyond the carved arch of pale stone, the lower sanctum waited somewhere beneath the earth, where the Heart stood in its chamber of roots and stone. I could feel it now, a slow thrum beneath my ribs, then I saw it, smoke rising to the east. It was not a cooking fire; it was too thick and too sudden. The sentries saw it too. They exchanged glances and abandoned their post without hesitation, boots pounding down on the moss-lined path. I watched them go; a green flicker caught my eye as it danced faintly between the trees in that same direction. Ignatius; this was his doing. Perhaps it was just a distraction, but with Ignatius, it could be much worse. Well, thanks to him, we now had our opening, and we slipped from the ridge and crossed the threshold of the village. I expected crude huts and tangled brush; instead, there was beauty. Homes shaped from living wood, coaxed rather than carved. Walls grown from braided branches, roofs thick with flowering vines. Lanterns hung in glass globes filled with drifting fireflies. The air smelled of sap and something sweeter that I could not name. They lived with the forest, not merely upon it. For just a moment, I felt like an intruder in something sacred. We were going to destroy this. For what? One seer. A trespass across a border that was established generations ago. There had always been a rivalry. Old grudges whispered by elders who no longer remembered their origin. But to poison their Heart? To unmake their power entirely? The Warlocks had not explained; they rarely did.
We slipped behind the wide trunk of an elder oak as a group passed along the path, women wrapped in white shawls, children laughing softly as they carried woven baskets of herbs and berries. Children. In our Order, they were cloistered until their Naming. No laughter in the open air. No wandering hands in warm sunlight. Only stone corridors and discipline. This looked… nice. I look to Tritis, and he remained still, unreadable behind his screaming mask. The laughter faded, and cold silence returned. At the centre of the village stood a structure older than the rest, not grown, but built. Stone half swallowed by root and moss. Its doorway was framed by twisting wood that had fused with the granite over centuries. There was a stairwell descending within. That must lead to it. We crossed the open ground quickly and stepped inside. The air shifted at once; it was cooler and smelled damp. As we descended, stone brick gave way to packed earth. At last, the passage widened into a circular chamber, roots hung thick from the ceiling, braided together like a living canopy. Bioluminescent moss painted the walls in a faint blue light. At the fair end of the chamber stood a sealed door of dark wood veined with silver sap. Beyond it was the heart, but between us and the door lay a man. He was seated on the packed earth, back against a great root that split the all like a frozen lightning bolt. At first, I thought him carved from stone. He was enormous, broader than Fidas by half again, arms thicker than my thigh. His chest rose and fell slowly; he is sleeping. He is wearing no armour, nor does he have a weapon, just a mere man at rest in the dim glow of the moonlight. We slipped behind one of the thicker columns, half concealed in shadow. Tristis looked at me, and I understood what he wanted to do. My grip tightened around Ignatius’ black daggers. To kill a man in battle was one thing; to slaughter him in his sleep felt wrong, cowardly even. Instead, I decided we would go around. I made the motion to Tristis, his masked face turned sharply toward me. Even without seeing his expression, I could feel his displeasure. I rose without waiting for agreement, and after a heartbeat’s hesitation, he followed. We moved slowly and carefully. Each step was measured so the mud would not betray us. The man’s breathing was deep and even. His head tilted slightly forward, white hair falling over his brow, it was as white as Tristis’. When we drew nearer, I saw his eyes; they were half lidded in his sleep, but I could make out the same I reached for the great wooden door and placed my hand against it. The surface was warm, alive even. As I began to push, a shadow fell over me; it was too large and too sudden. Before I could turn, a massive hand seized the side of my skull. Fingers like iron bands crushed against my temple, and the world began to spin. Then I was airborne and struck the earthen wall with bone-rattling force. The breath left my lungs in a violent gasp as my mask fell from my face. Mud and root and pain swallowed me whole. Tristis reacted instantly. He lunged, daggers absorbing the dim light, blades aimed for the man’s ribs. The giant did not even look at him. His arm made one motion, and Tristis flew as if swatted by a god, crashing through a curtain of hanging roots and slamming into the chamber floor with a sickening thud. The man stood fully now. He was taller than I had realised. Taller than any man I had ever seen. His muscles shifted beneath skin etched with faint earthen sigils, glowing softly like veins of quartz beneath stone. His purple eyes settled on me. He was now fully awake. He began to speak as I tried to stand.
“You smell of ash, Paladin,” his voice as deep as the shifting earth.
I forced myself onto one knee, vision swimming.
“What is your name, slave of Divinitas?”
“I am Nobody.”
“To kill a Nobody is sinful, but Gaia shall forgive me. I am Nerva, son of Titus, and you will die as Nobody.”
Son of Titus? I cannot take things lightly here. I struggle to stand; my head is still spinning from being thrown into the wall. Tristis is still out. I activate Ignatius blade; if I catch him with even one slash, the fire shall devour him.
“I will kill you first, then I shall kill that stupid bitch Gaia.”
His purple eyes burned, not with confusion but rather with rage. A low growl rolled from his chest, the sound of stone grinding beneath the earth. Then he lunged, for a man his size, he moved with terrifying speed. I threw myself to the left, boots skidding in wet mud as his hand slammed into the wall where my head had been an instant before. The impact slit root and dirt alike, sending a rain of soil down upon us. If he struck me cleanly even once more, I knew it, I would not rise again. I slashed as I moved, one of Ignatius’ black daggers flashing in the dim glow. The enchanted edge kissed his side, slicing cloth and skin. Green fire bled from the wound. It was not blood but flame; it hissed and did not die, instead slowly spreading across his flesh. The giant did not cry out; it was as if he had been turned into a wild beast, driven into a corner. He twisted with shocking grace, dropping low, far lower than a man of his build should be able to, one massive hand sweeping toward my legs while the other shot upward for my wrist. He caught my knife hand, just before I turned the knife down, it pierced his hand, and the flame began anew, all while his chest had become bare, ribs flared through the skin and meat clinging to the bone until being burnt away by the touch of Ignatius. As he caught my hand, his grip closed like a vice. Pain exploded through my fingers. I heard something crack, bone or blade, I could not tell. His strength was monstrous. He began to rise, dragging me with him. Intent on snapping the arm from my body as one might tear a branch from a tree. As I felt my arm come from its socket, I suddenly crashed to the ground, and my body groaned in pain. I looked towards my opponent, and his legs had become bare bones; the flame had finally begun to be useful. I dare not approach his strength, may still lie in his arms. I check Tristis, he’s still alive. I heard the giant whisper something before the flame consumed him whole.
“Viviana”. With that, he died.
Smoke slowly crept into the chamber. At first, I thought it a product of imagination, a trick of fear and pain, but then it thickened, threading through the hanging roots in pale, curling fingers. It stung my eyes. It carried the bitter tang of burning sap. Ignatius, had his green flame reached this far already? The thought unsettled me more than it steadied. We were losing time; the giant’s assault had cost us dearly. I rolled onto my side, teeth gritted as agony lanced up my arm. My wrist throbbed, swollen and half numb. When I flexed my fingers, fire shot to my shoulder; it was not broken, but very close.
“Tristis.” I rasped.
He lay crumpled near the split roots, mask cracked and smeared with blood. For a hearbeat I feared he was dead. I tore the screaming devil from his face. His white hair spilt free, damp with sweat. Blood ran from a cut along his temple, trailing past one closed eyelid.
“Wake,” I uttered, shaking him harder than I meant to.
His eyes snapped open, the violet pierced me. He sucked in a breath and sat up too quickly, gaze darting across the chamber and settling on what remained of the giant. He lay twisted against the earthen wall, and very little flesh remained attached to the bone. The flame began gnawing at the bone now, too. He looked less like a man now, more like a collapsed monument. Tristis stared only for a moment before his expression hardened.
“He would have killed us,” he said flatly.
“Yes.”
Whether I believed that fully, I could not say. He rose and slipped beneath my arm without asking, lending me his shoulder. I leaned into him despite pride’s protest. Each breath hurt. Each step sent tremors of pain through my ribs. The sealed wooden door stood in front of us. The pulse behind it was stronger now, faster. Tristis placed a hand against the door and pushed. The door groaned as though reluctant to yield. Then it opened inward with a rush. Wind struck us full in the face. It was warm and fragrant. The chamber beyond was vast and circular, its ceiling lost in shadow. Roots descended like pillars from above, braided and luminous. The air smelled sweet, like honey and blossoming flowers after rain.
The Heart stood in the centre of the room. It was not what I had expected; it was not a severed trunk or bleeding stump, but rather it rose from the floor as a living column of pale wood, smooth and faintly translucent, veins of light flowing within it like sap made of stars. Branches spread upward, brushing the vaulted ceiling, their leaves shimmering in hues of emerald and gold. The pulse we had felt coursed visibly through it, a slow expansion and contraction beneath its bark. It was alive, utterly alive, and we were not alone. Three figures stood before it, an old man, a woman and a baby. They did not wear armour. No blades rested at their sides. Their robes were simple, woven of green and brown, embroidered with symbols of root and leaf.
The old man’s beard fell to his chest, white as winter frost. His eyes were closed, and his hands pressed tightly against the Heart’s surface. Listening to it breathe. The woman stood tall beside him, dark hair braided with small flowers, clutching a baby wrapped in a blanket. There was steel in the way she held herself.
“You have come to take our Heart, haven’t you, boys?”
The old man’s voice did not tremble. It carried through the chamber like wind through tall grass, soft but unyielding.
“Yes, that is what we intend. Please step aside, there need not be bloodshed”.
The words felt heavier in my throat than they should have. A faint smile ghosted across his weathered face.
“Ah,” he said gently, “but there already has. My boy out there has been reduced to ash.”
“Your boy? You mean to say you are Titus? The same man who was spoken of with fear in our halls? You are… old.”
A breath of amusement left him.
“Even legends must age, lad. It is not natural to live forever, though your Overlord seems determined to try”.
“One of your Warlocks is here, I can feel his rot. My time here is done.”
His green eyes sharpened. Titus looked at me, not past me and not through me.
“I feel your heart, young Paladin. It beats too loudly for a butcher. There is good in you yet.” His voice lowered. “As a final request, do not allow your Warlocks to take our women and children.”
Beside me, Tristis shifted.
“You are spouting nonsense, old man. Stand aside so we can end this.” Tristis said coldly.
Smoke surged into the chamber; it was not drifting, it was rushing. It poured through the doorway behind us as though driven by unseen hands, swallowing the sweetness of the air in bitter black coils. The woman coughed and shielded the child behind a curtain of hanging roots. The Heart's faint light flickered. When the smoke thinned, he stood there, Ignatius, his mask discarded. His pale face glistened with sweat and something darker, a red smear drying along his mouth and chin. His eyes shone forever bright. Almost luminous in the green glow. In one hand, he held Titus tightly by the throat; the old man did not struggle. Before I could speak, Ignatius drove his black dagger deep into Titus’ ribcage. A wet sound filled the chamber. Titus gasped, a small, startled thing, and blood welled dark and rich around the blade. I felt something tear inside my chest.
“Ignatius!” I roared. “What are you doing? We were tasked with killing the Heart.”
Ignatius did not look at me.
“That,” he said calmly, twisting the dagger slightly, “was your quest.”
He pulled the blade free and let Titus fall to the ground.
“We had a separate one. Sanguine is carting away the bodies as we speak.”
The word struck like a blow.
“Bodies? Bodies for what?” The truth began to creep in, cold and sickening. “Don’t tell me… You massacred them.”
Ignatius smiled.
“Blood is our lifeforce, Paladin.” He knelt beside Titus, pressed his mouth to the wound and began drinking.
The sound that followed was obscene.
“End the Heart,” he muttered against torn flesh, “so we may leave.”
My blood began to boil, a roaring in my ears louder than the Heart’s pulse. Tristis stood still, as carved stone. Calm, blank even. As I stepped toward the Heart, dagger trembling in my grasp, a small whimper cut through the chamber. The baby had broken the silence. Ignatius lifted his head slowly, and blood ran down his chin. He smiled wider, revealing jagged teeth slick with red.
“Tristis, kill her and bring the body to the cart. We need the babies alive. Master has plans for them.
The woman pulled the child close, horror widening her eyes. I stood frozen. Had I been blind all this time? The Heart was never the main objective; it was their blood. Terras blood carried more mana than ours ever had. Pure and untainted by ritual. It was the only way the Warlocks could sustain themselves for so long. We were harvesters. Something inside me shattered. I moved between Tristis and the Woman, daggers drawn. Tristis halted. His gaze pierced mine; in it, I saw disappointment. I had never felt smaller in his gaze. Flame crept along the entrance behind Ignatius, green fire licking at the roots and stone, sealing off the entrance. There was one exit behind the woman. I turned to look at them.
“Flee through there,” I said, pointing through the small gap in the roots beside her.
“What about you?”
“I'll be fine now, just go.”
Ignatius rose slowly, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He saw where I stood.
“Tristis”, he said lightly, “I would never ask you to kill your own brother. I take far too much pleasure in doing it myself.”
“Phaedra would never allow this”, I said, tightening my grip.
Ignatius laughed a deep guttural laugh.
“Master has lived for over three hundred years, you naïve idiot. How do you believe that is possible?” He spread his blood-slick hands “It is because of me.”
He took a step forward. The green fire flared higher behind him.
“Will you truly die over that girl and her daughter?” he asked softly. “Will you cast aside your title as High Paladin? Your place beneath the Warlocks? Everything you have bled for?”
The Heart pulsed. Once. Twice. Across from me stood Tristis, my brother, whom I love so dear and his mentor, my superior and the architect of our order's longevity. Between us lay Titus’ lifeless body, still bleeding into the soil. Smoke thickened overhead, and for the first time in my life, I understood that the greatest enemy I would ever face did not wear Terra’s colours; they wore mine.
“I will not fight you, Paladin. Your fate is already sealed.”
I looked down at my hands. They were glowing. At first, I thought it a reflection, the Heart's light catching my armour, but then the burning began. It was no normal heat, not as from a forge or flame. This was something alive. The enchanted blades trembled in my grip, and from their edges the green fire slithered like a serpent finding new prey. It leapt from the tar like metal to flesh without hesitation. It clung and bit at my skin. I dropped one dagger, then the other, but the flame did not fall away with them. Agony tore through my palms, burrowing into bone, and I clawed at my own skin, desperate to smother it, to scrape it free. The smell of scorched flesh filled my nostrils, my flesh. Divinitas, is this what the giant had endured? When I cut him, the fire had devoured him, and yet he had not cried out. He had fought as though the pain were nothing but wind against stone. How? The green flame raced up my arms, winding around muscle and sinew, tracing veins as if they were roads paved for it alone. It climbed my shoulder, slid down my ribs and coiled up my throat. My vision began to blur, and the chamber spun around me. I fell to my knees; the world had become pain, and the taste of iron filled my throat. So, this is how it ends, burned by the very weapon I intended to kill him with.
A sharp gasp rang through my ears; it was not mine. Ignatius's body stiffened, and I forced my eyes open to see Tristus standing behind Ignatius with both daggers buried to the hilt between Ignatius's shoulders. For the very first time, Ignatius looked… surprised. His manic smile faltered. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, not from feeding but from within. Tristis wrenched the blades free and kicked Ignatius forward. The Warlock staggered, green fire flickering violently around him. Tristis was at my side in an instant. He dropped to his knees and pressed his palm against my burning chest. His lips moved, not in the clipped commands of battle, but in a low, flowing chant I had never heard before. The words were not ours; they were older. The purple of his eyes seemed to deepen, darkening toward black as the chant grew stronger. The pain did not lessen at once; it resisted. The flame writhed across my skin like a living thing being strangled. The green fire began to falter. Then slowly, agonisingly, it began to recede. Not extinguished, but drawn inward, pulled from my flesh in thin reluctant threads that dissolved into smoke. The relief was almost worse than the pain had been. I collapsed against him, gasping. My skin was blistered, blackened in places, but the flames no longer consumed me. Tristis did not speak; he hauled me up, slinging my arm over his shoulder despite the tremor in his own. Behind us, Ignatius groaned. We went through the roots to escape. As we were leaving, I looked back once. Ignatius was gone, not dead, but gone. The last memory I was of being dragged by Tristis along a wooded path, and there were voices calling out to me. Telling me to follow, to join them.
I could not. Ignatius had to pay.
