Chapter IV — The Field of Silence
The gates of Bastion groaned as they opened, the sound carrying through the still air like a sigh. Frost glimmered on the stones, catching the pale light of a dawn that never truly came.
Grimm adjusted his cloak and glanced at Aethoron. "How far?"
The old man smiled without warmth. "Far enough that your hope might freeze before we get there."
Alfara said nothing. Her eyes lingered on the city's towers as they receded behind them — the faint glow of Keeper's wards fading to a soft blue shimmer. She couldn't shake the feeling that Bastion was watching them leave, as if even the walls remembered what it meant to fear.
For a while they walked in silence, the crunch of dead frost beneath their boots the only sound. The land beyond the walls was a grave stretched to the horizon — broken statues, skeletal trees, rivers of black glass where water once ran.
After a time, Alfara spoke softly. "You said we were going to a battlefield."
Aethoron nodded. "From the War of the Gods. One of the last fought before the world fell quiet."
"And the one we seek?" Grimm asked.
"A hero," Aethoron said, almost thoughtfully. "A man who stood against the end and would not bow, even when his gods did." He glanced sideways at Alfara. "You'll know his name. They sang it once in your parents' halls."
She frowned. "Alrick?"
Aethoron's smile returned, thin and tired. "The same."
She stopped walking. "He was a champion of Solareth. He guarded the Gate of Dawn for a century. My mother said even death would hesitate before his blade."
"Death," Aethoron murmured, "did not hesitate. It simply changed him."
Grimm's jaw tightened. "What did Althoran do to him?"
The old man looked out over the wasteland. "The ones who fought him hardest… he left them half-awake. He thought it fitting — to let them see eternity but not touch it. They remember who they were, what they fought for, but their bodies are puppets of the curse. He called it mercy."
"That's not mercy," Alfara whispered.
"No," Aethoron said. "But to him, it was balance. The living suffered from decay and grief. The dead were lost in silence. He gave them both — the pain of life and the stillness of death."
They continued on until the ruins appeared in the distance — the bones of a city sprawling across the plain, towers leaning like broken teeth. The walls were shattered but still stood in places, streaked with the black residue of divine fire.
As they drew nearer, Alfara felt something hum beneath her feet — faint vibrations, like the echo of a heart long stopped.
"This place…" she murmured.
"Solareth's shadow," Aethoron said. "They called it the City of Dawn once. The light never returned after the battle."
At the city's edge, rows of spears jutted from the ground like grave markers. Bits of armor, rusted and fused to bone, littered the earth. The air carried no stench, but it felt like rot — old memory clinging to the cold.
Then Grimm saw it: a figure standing atop the half-collapsed wall.
He was enormous, his armor once bright silver but now stained in long, dark streaks. A torn banner hung from his spear, fluttering faintly in the wind. His eyes burned with pale fire, and when he turned his head, the movement was slow — deliberate, restrained, as if every motion came from deep within stone.
Alfara's breath caught. "Alrick…"
The name echoed through the ruins, and the figure stilled.
A faint crack ran through the silence — the sound of a gauntlet tightening around a weapon.
When he spoke, his voice was like metal scraping marble. "Who calls me by that name?"
Alfara stepped forward, her hands trembling. "I do. I am Alfara, daughter of Ell and Mordus. I knew of you in the Age of Life. You stood beside my mother when the darkness came."
The great helm turned toward her, the pale fire behind its visor flickering. "The goddess's child…" His voice broke slightly. "Then the world still remembers?"
"Yes," she said gently. "I came to find those who once defended it. You can help us."
For a moment, silence. Then Alrick's hand twitched — violently. The spear shook, his body jerking against itself like a marionette straining against invisible strings.
"No," he rasped. "You must… leave. He will—"
His words cut off in a roar. The spear lunged forward, striking the earth inches from her feet, shattering stone.
Grimm was already moving. He shoved Alfara aside, drawing his blade in one smooth motion. The impact threw dust into the air, shadows twisting in the dim light.
Alrick's movements were monstrous — powerful, precise, inhuman. Every strike carried the weight of his legend, and Grimm could feel the force through every clash. This was no mere undead; this was a man who had once stood at the edge of godhood, whose arms had lifted banners of light in battles that shook realms.
The first swing came like a falling tree, heavy and unstoppable. Grimm barely blocked it with his sword, sparks spraying into the frosted air. The ground quaked under each strike. The paladin's body moved with fluid, terrifying grace — a perfect blend of strength, skill, and unwillingness.
Grimm countered, striking at gaps in the armor, forcing Alrick to retreat a step. But the paladin's return strike shattered Grimm's guard, driving him backward across the broken stones. A low groan escaped him, more from effort than pain, as frost-crusted earth bit into his boots.
Alfara screamed, "Grimm! He's… he's not himself!"
"I know!" Grimm shouted, sweat stinging his eyes. "I see it!"
Alrick lunged again, faster this time, swinging with the weight of a battering ram. Grimm twisted to meet him, steel against steel, and felt the impact jolt through his arms, nearly knocking him off his feet. Each strike was a test of endurance, every parry a gamble with death.
Alfara crouched behind a fragment of wall, watching, heart breaking. This is Alrick, she thought. A hero of my world, and he's… he's just a shadow of what he was.
Alrick's helm tilted, and for a flicker of a second, Grimm saw recognition — the ghost of a man struggling inside the armor. His next swing was wild, conflicted, and Grimm realized the truth: Alrick's will fought against the curse, trying to act differently, but the body obeyed the puppet strings of Althoran's twisted design.
Grimm drove forward with everything he had, slashing across the paladin's leg plates. Alrick staggered, but recovered instantly, towering over Grimm with an aura of force that nearly crushed the air. Grimm rolled under a swing, coming up behind him only to be caught by a backward strike that slammed him into a wall. Pain flared through his side — ribs aching, sword arm trembling — but he pushed himself up, refusing to give ground.
Alfara called out again, her voice breaking: "Alrick, please! Fight with me, not against me!"
The paladin's head jerked toward her. For a moment, something human shone in the helm's glow — regret, sorrow, understanding. Then his body spun violently, spear arcing toward Alfara. Grimm lunged in a desperate act of protection, intercepting the strike and driving Alrick's momentum aside. The air screamed as steel met steel, and Grimm's muscles screamed in reply.
He swung again, hacking at the armor, forcing Alrick to stagger backward across the shattered wall. Every movement demanded more than he thought possible; every strike risked life and limb. He could feel Alrick's strength in the air around him, in the weight of the swings, the precision of the attacks — a force born of centuries of battle. This was not a man anymore, not fully, but it was the closest thing Grimm had ever faced to a god in mortal flesh.
And yet, beneath all that, Grimm felt it — the flicker of humanity struggling inside the curse. Every hesitation in Alrick's strike, every almost-misstep, spoke of a hero trapped in torment. Grimm used it, dodging and weaving, blocking and parrying, fighting not just for himself, but for Alfara. He could not fail her. He would not.
Finally, after a long, brutal exchange, Alrick faltered. Grimm's blade found a chink beneath the shoulder plates, forcing him to one knee. The paladin's chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, the spear slipping from his grasp.
Alfara ran to him, tears falling freely. "Alrick… it's me. Alfara. I… we need your help. Please."
The helm turned, the pale fire dimming to a flicker. The voice came faintly through the jagged armor: "The… western plain… there… the fallen gods… sleep…"
His hand, still trembling, reached toward her, and for one fleeting heartbeat, the legend she had known — the great champion — was there. Then the body sank forward, collapsing into the ruins, a shell bound by the curse.
Grimm dropped to one knee beside Alfara, catching her as she clutched the hero's gauntleted hand. "He's still there," she whispered. "Even after… everything."
Aethoron watched from a few steps away, silent. His eyes reflected no judgment, only a quiet acknowledgment of the horror before them.
Grimm stood slowly, shoulders aching, muscles burning. "We move," he said. "He told us where to go."
Alfara nodded, still trembling. The wind whispered through the ruined city, carrying the echoes of a time when heroes were whole, when light meant something more than survival.
And somewhere beneath the ice and ash, their journey continued.