Dawn rose with a diffidence that belonged only to the old world, its light leaking through the cracks in the HQ's battered dome as if afraid to trespass upon the hangar's sacred gloom. In this hour, the great hall was not yet the site of chaos, nor even the memory of it; it was a cathedral, the air dense with the prelude of ceremony, each breath of mist and oil and distant salt a liturgy for what was to come.
The Knights assembled beneath the exposed ribs of the dome, their armour casting fractal shadows across the scarred tarmac. They stood in uneven rows, not as a phalanx, but in an arrangement closer to a family portrait: forced together by history, separated by the intimate distances of grief and pride. Each was flanked by their complement of Knight of Primus, the new breed, their armour less ornate, faces unmasked, every gesture betraying the ferocity and fear of those who knew how easily legends could be broken.
Lord Hideyoshi was the first to step forward, the red and gold of his cape catching the uncertain light, his helm cradled in the crook of his arm. He moved with the composure of a man who had spent the night neither in sleep nor in preparation, but in the third state known only to commanders who had learned to outwait their own dread. He took his place at the head of the assembly, the platform's incline raising him only slightly above the others, just enough for the light to draw new grooves across the map of his face.
He waited. In the hangar, even the children had gone silent. The staff of Rook & Pegasus, the engineers and medics and cooks and sweepers, crowded at the periphery, eyes wide, waiting for the words that would send the Knights into the world one last time, or perhaps, if the world was lucky, one time more.
Hideyoshi's gaze travelled the crowd, pausing at each Knight. He did not smile. When he spoke, the voice was low, unhurried, as though he would not spend a single syllable unnecessarily.
"We are called," he began, "not because we were the best, or the strongest. Not because we were born for this. We are called because there is no one else."
He let the phrase stand, inviting the weight of it to settle into every throat.
"Today, we divide. The plan, as you know, is not one of unity, but of scattering—six fronts, each to its own axis, each to its own silence. We have been together longer than I ever hoped. And it is not enough. The monsters learn from us; it anticipates what is predictable. From now, we become unpredictable."
He looked to his left, to Syr Lancelot, whose hands twitched with the memory of yesterday's wounds.
"We will not meet again as a company, not unless the world bends in ways it never has before. But I ask you all, each and every one, do not falter in your work. We are Knights. That is the only meaning left. Our existence is not for ourselves, but for the hope that, somewhere, one less child will see the world end."
He stepped back, allowing the words to filter through the ranks. In the second row, Galahad murmured something to Noor, too quiet for even anyone to catch. Lancelot bowed his head; Agravain stood rigid, as if unwilling to permit even the suggestion of vulnerability.
Hideyoshi let the silence breathe, then added, "We may be scattered across continents, but our teamwork does not falter. Our mission is unchanged: to help humanity prevail against the Anomalies, the Emergence, and all threats of Calamity. For those we protect, for those who remain, and for those we have lost—hold the line."
A sound rose from the Knights, not a cheer, not even a unified word, but a noise that started in the chest and resonated outward, a sound as old as war: the shared breath of the condemned, the survivors, the ones who remained because no one else could.
From the edge of the assembly, Cecill Ackerman strode forward, his suit a contradiction of immaculate lines and a face that looked carved from insomnia. He approached Hideyoshi with a briskness that belonged to a man used to delivering bad news on the quarter hour.
"Lord Hideyoshi," Cecill said, using the full title, the rare formality drawing attention from every eye in the room. "Rook, Pegasus, and our remaining partners in UN Command have committed to supporting your operations in all six sectors. Supply chains are prepped, air routes are open, and communications have been hardened. You will have every resource I can offer, for as long as there is anything left to offer."
He hesitated, as though the next words required more courage than he had in reserve.
"I pray that this plan will work out somehow. The world cannot bear another stalemate."
The words were meant to motivate, but they struck with the violence of a benediction. Hideyoshi nodded, then extended a hand. Cecill, startled, took it, their grip lingering just longer than protocol demanded.
"Good luck," Cecill said, but the phrase came out as a kind of confession. "Mi Lord."
Hideyoshi released him, then turned to face the Knights. One by one, they filed forward, each pausing before the platform in a ritual that had no precedent but every ounce of meaning. Galahad, Noor, Agravain, Tristan—each bowed, some deeper than others, all whispering the same two words: "Mi Lord." In their wake, the Knight of Primus followed, heads lowered in reverence or exhaustion, some glancing up at Hideyoshi as if hoping for absolution.
When Syr Lancelot's turn came, he broke protocol: instead of a bow, he knelt, hand pressed to his chest in the gesture of the old world's knights. "Master," he said, the word a brittle promise.
Hideyoshi smiled, the only smile he permitted himself, and rested a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. "Go with honour, Perceval," he said, using the true name. "And return if you can."
Syr Marigold was last. He hesitated, just for a breath, as though unsure if the ritual applied to him. The gold of his armour shimmered with the dawn, throwing fractured light onto the platform and making him, for a heartbeat, the brightest thing in the hangar. He advanced, then, and dropped to one knee.
"Master," Marigold said, the word muffled by his helmet but unmistakable in its intent.
Hideyoshi looked down, and in that moment, whatever passed between them was private—a memory, an instruction, a blessing. He extended a hand, not to the shoulder but to the helm, and rested it there, the touch as careful as a father's.
"Stay strong, Marigold," Hideyoshi said. "You know what is required of you."
Marigold rose; the gesture filled with a gravity that belonged only to those who had already seen themselves die in a thousand possible futures.
With the farewells complete, the Knights dispersed to the edges of the hangar, where the airships, jumpjets, and submersibles waited, each painted in the insignia of their new command. The engines had already begun their warmup cycles, the atmosphere laced with the promise of immediate departure. The Knight of Primus squads filed after their leaders, some in orderly ranks, some in huddled, nervous clusters, each carrying the weapons that given by the codex.
As the noise of the engines grew, Hideyoshi lingered on the platform, watching as the teams loaded and the last-minute checks were performed. He looked out across the hangar, past the shadows, to where the first light of morning threatened the horizon.
Only then did he notice Marigold, still standing at the base of the platform, motionless. The others had departed or at least pretended to, but Marigold remained, gold catching every hue of the rising sun, as though refusing to be outshone by any dawn.
Hideyoshi descended the steps, his boots ringing hollow on the metal. When he reached Marigold, he inclined his head just enough to bring them level.
"You are not deploying with the others?" he asked, voice pitched low.
Marigold hesitated, then spoke, the words slow, each one chosen with surgical care. "I do not know where I am needed most."
Hideyoshi studied him for a moment, the lines of his face unreadable. Then he smiled, a true smile this time, and said, "You are already at your post, Marigold. It is here."
Marigold nodded, once. "You believe I am enough?"
Hideyoshi put a hand on the knight's shoulder. "I believe you are more than enough. I believe that, in the end, it may be you who endures when all the rest are stories."
They stood in silence, the whine of engines and the shouts of the ground crew providing a soundtrack to their stillness.
At last, Marigold bowed, the gesture not of a subordinate, but of an equal accepting his place. "Then I will hold this ground, Master. Until you return."
Hideyoshi patted the shoulder, then turned without another word and walked toward his own waiting vessel, the red and gold of his cape snapping in the wind.
One by one, the airships and jumpjets detached from the compound, their lights winking in the thinning dark, each departure a line of poetry written on the palimpsest of morning. The hangar emptied, the echoes of ceremony fading into the new day.
Marigold watched as the last of his fellows vanished into the sky. He did not remove his helmet. He did not sigh, nor did he allow his posture to betray even a hint of despair. He simply stood, alone in the vastness, as the dawn found new ways to gild him.
He was a sentinel, a relic, a warning, a hope. He was all the things the world needed and none of the things it deserved.
And when, at last, the silence became complete, Marigold took his place at the threshold of the hangar, eyes fixed on the horizon where the others had disappeared, and waited—not for rescue, not for glory, but for the day the Knights would come home, and the world would need him no longer.
In that stillness, the future became possible.