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Chapter 2 - The Walls of Doubt

The morning sun warmed Perceival's face in the cathedral courtyard. Within Eldergrove's high walls, the crisp, clean air hummed with a fragile peace. Yet that peace felt distant.

Two days had passed since his trial, two days spent in restless contemplation. The revenant's words—"You know nothing of the true darkness that lies within"—echoed in his mind, a persistent whisper that chipped away at the foundations of his faith. He went through the motions of his training, swinging his practice sword with a desperate force, but his mind wasn't on the steel. It was on the shadows, and what they might conceal.

Brother Alaric, his armor gleaming, parried Perceival's clumsy strike with a casual flick of his wrist. The clang of wood on steel was a familiar sound, one that had once filled Perceival with a sense of purpose. Now, it felt like an empty ritual.

"Your form is sloppy, Perceival," Alaric said, his voice a steady rumble. "You're fighting a ghost, not me."

Perceival lowered his sword, breathing heavily. "I'm sorry, Brother. My mind is elsewhere."

Alaric stepped closer, his weathered face etched with concern. "The trial shook you more than I thought. What is it, my boy? The revenant's words?"

The question hung in the air between them. Perceival wanted to confess everything—the seeds of doubt, the gnawing suspicion that the Church was not what it seemed—but the words caught in his throat. How could he, a mere trainee, question the very institution that had given him a home and a purpose? He was afraid of the answer, afraid that his mentor, a man he respected above all others, would see him as a heretic.

"I... I just don't understand," Perceival finally stammered. "The revenant spoke of a darkness within. It felt so real, Brother. Like it knew a truth I don't."

A sigh escaped Alaric's lips. "Perceival, the undead are masters of deception. They whisper lies to break our spirit. Their purpose is to sow discord and turn us against the Light. Your faith is your shield; it is what separates us from them. Do not let their whispers corrupt you."

Perceival nodded, but the reassurance felt hollow. He had felt the power of the Light in his sword, a brilliant, purifying force. Yet the revenant's words hadn't felt like a deception; they had felt like a challenge, a truth waiting to be uncovered. He decided to change the subject, for now. "Tell me more about the Light, Brother. How does it work? Is it a gift, or something we earn?"

Alaric's expression softened, and he gestured for Perceival to follow him to a stone bench. "The Light, Perceival, is not a power we wield, but a trust we are given. It is the divine essence of all that is good in the world. We channel it through our prayers and our convictions. It flows through us, not from us. Think of a stained-glass window. The glass doesn't create the light; it simply allows it to pass through, shaping it and making it beautiful."

The analogy resonated with Perceival, and he felt a flicker of the old certainty. "So the cleaner the glass, the brighter the light?"

"Precisely," Alaric said with a rare, genuine smile. "Purity of heart and conviction of spirit are what allow the Light to shine brightest. That is what your trial was about.

The revenant was a mirror, reflecting your inner doubts. You didn't have to defeat the creature, but the darkness within your own heart."

A low, mournful bell tolled, a single, deep note that cut through the peaceful morning. It wasn't from the cathedral bells, but from the watchtowers along the city walls.

Perceival had heard the sound only in stories—the bell that signaled a siege.

The serene atmosphere of the courtyard shattered instantly. Guards rushed past, their armor clanking, their faces grim. Alaric's expression hardened, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword.

"A horde," he said, the single word heavy with dread. "It's been years."

"A horde of what, Brother?" Perceival asked, his heart now hammering in his chest.

"Zombies, my boy. Not the shambling kind you've faced in the outlying farmlands. A true horde. A tide of the hungry and the dead."

Without another word, Alaric began to run, his pace surprisingly swift for a man of his age. Perceival followed, his practice sword forgotten, the weight of his satchel feeling heavier than ever. They sprinted through the cobblestone streets, past frightened citizens pulling their children indoors and shopkeepers hastily barricading their doors. The sense of peace was gone, replaced by a tangible fear that permeated the very air.

They reached the top of the east wall, where the air was thick with the scent of ozone and the nervous energy of the city guards.

The walls of Eldergrove were a testament to human resilience, massive stones stacked hundreds of feet high, their parapets lined with archers and soldiers. As Alaric and Perceival emerged onto the ramparts, a blast of wind hit them, carrying with it a low, guttural moan that grew louder with every passing second.

"Status!" Alaric bellowed, his voice carrying over the wind.

A young guard, his face pale with fear, saluted. "Brother Alaric, sir! The eastern plains! A thousand, maybe more! They're coming straight for the wall!"

Perceival leaned over the parapet, his eyes widening in horror. The plains below were a roiling sea of the grotesque. A vast tide of undead shambled and ran toward the city walls, their tattered clothes and decaying forms a blight on the green landscape. Their hollow eyes, filled with an unnatural hunger, were fixed on Eldergrove. The groans and shrieks of the horde melded into a single, terrifying sound.

"Holy Light," Perceival whispered, the words a genuine prayer now. He had never seen anything like it. His previous encounters with the undead had been small skirmishes, a handful of risen corpses here and there. This was an apocalypse in motion.

"Get me Lord Tinndale!" Alaric roared to another guard. "Tell him we need a paladin of the Round Table, now! The Sixth Low Seat must respond!"

He turned to the rest of the guards, his voice a steady, commanding presence. "Archers, nock your arrows! On my signal. Mages, prepare your fireballs! Don't waste your mana! We will not fall today!"

He looked at Perceival, his gaze intense. "This is not a trial, boy. This is war. You will stand with me. You will channel the Light, not just for yourself, but for the people behind these walls."

Perceival nodded, the fear still a cold knot in his stomach, but now mixed with a fierce determination. The doubts he had harbored about the Church seemed to vanish in the face of this immediate, undeniable threat.

He was a trainee, but he was also a protector. He placed a hand on the wall's cold stone, feeling its solidity and its strength. He had a duty.

As they waited, the moaning of the horde grew to a deafening roar. Arrows began to rain down on the first wave of the undead, but for every one that fell, two more took its place. The ground rumbled beneath their feet as the first of the shambling corpses slammed into the stone walls, their dead fists pounding uselessly against the unyielding rock.

Then, a new sound cut through the din. The heavy clank of black armor, the confident tread of heavy boots. A figure emerged onto the wall, a man with a shaved head and a face crisscrossed with old, jagged scars. His black plate armor was simple but powerful, devoid of the intricate filigree and holy symbols of the other paladins. He carried a greatsword on his back, a massive two-handed weapon that looked impossibly heavy. This was Geoffrey Tinndale, the Sixth Low Seat of the Round Table.

Alaric bowed his head respectfully. "Lord Tinndale. The horde is upon us."

Geoffrey Tinndale simply stared at the approaching tide of undead, his scarred face impassive. "I see that, Alaric. The bastards are getting bold." His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, like stones grinding together. He didn't carry the aura of holy light that Perceival had expected from a paladin. Instead, he radiated a cold, practical power, like a seasoned executioner.

"We need your help, sir," Alaric said. "Your greatsword will clear a path and your aura can…."

"My aura is not for clearing paths, old friend," Geoffrey interrupted, a glint in his eye. "My job is to hold the line, not to break it. I will defend the gate, but the rest is up to you and these children." He gestured dismissively at the guards and Perceival.

Perceival felt a stab of indignation at being called a child. "I am a trainee of the Church of the Holy Light!" he declared, raising his voice.

Geoffrey turned his cold, dark eyes on Perceival, a slight, almost imperceptible smirk on his lips. "A trainee? You stand on a wall of stone, boy. The Light is a luxury for the weak and the fearful. This is a place for steel and grit. You have either one or both."

With that, he walked toward the main gate, his greatsword still sheathed on his back. Alaric watched him go, a conflicted expression on his face.

"He's... different," Perceival said, confused. He had always imagined the paladins as shining beacons of hope. Geoffrey was more like a storm cloud.

"Geoffrey Tinndale," Alaric said, his voice quiet. "He is what we call an 'Iron Paladin.' He saw his entire family and village butchered by the undead. The Light he wields is not one of faith, but of vengeance. He uses it to burn, to cleanse, to annihilate. There is no joy in his power, only a cold, burning hatred for the dead."

The bell rang again, this time with a frantic, desperate rhythm. The eastern wall was being breached. A section of the outer wall, weakened by a previous battle, was crumbling under the relentless assault.

"The gate!" a guard screamed. "They're at the gate!"

Geoffrey Tinndale was already there, his greatsword now unsheathed. It was a horrifying, beautiful weapon, its black steel stained with what looked like old blood. He planted himself in front of the massive oak doors, a lone bulwark against a tide of death.

"Perceival," Alaric commanded, his voice filled with a newfound urgency. "Stand with me. We will hold this section of the wall. Your first lesson in true combat begins now. Forget your doubts. Let the Light guide your hand, and for the love of all that is holy, don't fall."

Perceival's heart pounded, a frantic drumbeat in his ears. He gripped the hilt of his sword, its golden runes pulsating faintly.

The sight of the collapsing wall section and the sheer number of undead clawing their way over the rubble was a gut-wrenching sight. Yet as he looked at Alaric, at the resolute face of his mentor, he felt a surge of strength. He might have doubts about the Church and its teachings, but he had no doubts about the man standing beside him.

This was not a fight for abstract faith. This was a fight for the people of Eldergrove, for the lives behind these walls. The Light was not just a metaphor; it was a shield against the creeping, gnawing darkness.

He took a deep breath, and as the first of the zombies clawed its way to the top of the wall, Perceival raised his sword. The blade pulsed with a brighter, more brilliant light than ever before. He was ready. The trial was over. The war had begun.

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