The rain had a sound that ate every other sound. It came down straight and heavy, soaking the men until their armor lost its shine. The road, if it could still be called that, had long since turned into a trench of wet earth. Every boot sank deep and came up brown. Horses stumbled often. Once, a mule went down into a ditch and never came up.
We were twenty-five Aura Knights of the Order of Colardio and near four hundred of the Royal Order of White. They were good soldiers, loyal to the king, but they were not of the same making as us. The Whites believed in the crown. We believed in our hearts.
I walked ahead of them all, the rain gathering in the ridges of my lion mask. My cape dragged behind me, so soaked it carried its own weight. The sword on my back, The Fang of Orlanis, knocked against the armor with every step. The sound kept me alert.
When you spend your life listening for death, even small sounds matter.
The men spoke little. A few muttered prayers, though not the kind the Theocracies used. In Orlaniso we do not pray. We were taught that gods have no need to be called if they already live within us. To breathe is prayer enough. Aura is the proof.
By the time the light began to fade, the mud had grown colder. The air tasted of iron. We had been marching for three days from the northern frontier, where the cults had begun their petty uprisings. The fighting had been easy, the kind of work meant for veterans. They came in the night with their crude weapons and wild eyes, calling on Dukias, the fallen god of the south. It always ended the same way.
We killed them, buried the bodies, and moved on.
Now, we were called to the capital. The king had summoned all Masters and their commands. He claimed there was a new kind of magic being used in the skirmishes. The cults had begun creating life from stone and soil through the forced shaping of mana cores. It was a kind of sorcery even the Theocracies called forbidden. If true, it meant they were reaching into old knowledge again.
Captain Harn of the Royal Order came up beside me, his armor streaked with mud and the white of his cloak turned gray.
"My lord Vermant," he said, lifting his visor, "the men are spent. We should stop and make camp before the river crossing."
His breath came out as fog. He was a strong man, once a knight himself before he gave up training his Aura. His loyalty to the king was absolute, but even he had limits.
"The ground will not hold tents," I said.
"It will hold men," he answered, half smiling. "Or it will bury them. Either way, they'll rest."
The corner of my mouth twitched. "We march until the ridge. After that, they may stop."
He nodded, though I could see in his eyes that he thought me cruel. He was not wrong. Cruelty keeps soldiers alive longer than kindness.
We reached the ridge at dusk. The sky was the color of wet ash, and the rain slowed to a fine mist. Fires were made in small pits. The men removed their helms, steam rising from their faces. Armor clicked and clanked as they sat down, weary to the bone.
I did not sit. I stood on a rock and watched them. The air was thick and quiet, save for the crackle of fire. It was then one of the younger knights came running through the fog.
"My lord," he said, panting. "Scouts found something near the marsh below."
"Alive?"
"It moves, sir. But they say it is no man."
Captain Harn joined us, his brow furrowed. "What did he mean by that?"
The boy swallowed. "They said it walks like a man, but the sound it makes is like stone breaking."
I took my sword and motioned for five of my Aura Knights to follow. Harn came as well. The ground softened again as we moved down the slope, the mud swallowing our boots with each step. The rain began to fall heavier once more.
We found it by the water's edge.
It stood taller than any man, near eight feet if not more. The shape was human enough to unsettle. Shoulders, arms, legs, all there, but each made of rough stone packed tight, the gaps filled with soil and the green of moss. A light burned in its chest. Not a flicker, but a steady glow, bright as a forge flame.
The thing moved when it saw us. It turned its head slowly, as if the motion took effort.
One of the Whites behind me whispered, "Saints help us."
I said nothing. Saints are for those who pray. I drew The Fang of Orlanis and stepped forward.
The first swing of its arm came faster than I thought possible. It struck the ground beside me, breaking a stone clean in two. I moved under it and drove the blade at the light in its chest. The metal rang out like it had struck a bell. The thing did not bleed, but cracks spread where the sword met stone.
It swung again. I rolled aside and brought the sword down across its arm. The cut was clean, and the limb fell, still moving even as it hit the mud. The light pulsed brighter, angry perhaps, if a thing of earth could feel.
The third strike went home. I thrust straight through the chest, deep until I felt the blade sink into something softer. The light flared once, then went out.
The body froze, and then, piece by piece, it crumbled. The sound was like gravel sliding down a hill. The glow faded into nothing.
Captain Harn stepped close, his face pale under the rain. "By the crown, what is that?"
I knelt and dug through the fragments until my hand found the source of the glow. It was a smooth stone, round as an apple, still warm to the touch. I held it up.
"A mana core," I said. "Someone made this. Someone gave it breath."
Harn crossed himself out of habit, though he caught my look and stopped halfway.
"You think it's one of the southern Theocracies?" he asked.
"They have priests, not craftsmen. This is something else."
"What do we do with it?"
I handed it to him. "Keep it cold. We'll show it to the king."
We returned to camp. The men looked uneasy. Word had already spread that something unnatural had walked among us. Some of the Whites murmured about ghosts, others about curses.
I let them talk. Fear keeps men alert better than courage.
That night, the rain stopped. The sky stayed dark, no stars. The fires burned low, and I sat apart from the others, the mask resting beside me. The air smelled of wet iron and smoke.
An older knight named Torrin came and sat near me. His beard was streaked with gray, and his armor was dented from too many fights.
"Never seen one like that," he said quietly.
"Neither have I," I answered.
"You think it was alive?"
"It moved. It fought. That is enough."
He nodded, thinking. "When I was a boy, they said the old magisters could shape men from clay. Said the first god taught them how."
I looked at him. "Then they learned from liars."
He chuckled. "Maybe. Or maybe we are just slower students."
He left after that. I stayed awake until dawn, listening to the soft breathing of the camp. Every so often, I could hear the faint hum from the pack where the mana stone was kept. It sounded too much like a heartbeat.
We broke camp early. The mud had frozen in thin sheets overnight, and the sky had cleared to a dull gray. The men were quieter than usual. Even Harn kept to himself. No songs, no talk, only the steady rhythm of boots and hooves.
Around midday, one of the Whites asked me if I thought there would be more of the stone creatures.
"There will be," I said. "Things like that are never made once."
He fell silent after that.
We crossed the river by noon. The bridge was narrow and broken in places, the current strong enough to drag a man under. A few of the soldiers slipped, but none fell. On the far side, the land began to rise into low hills covered in winter grass. The air grew cleaner, colder.
Captain Harn rode beside me again. "We'll reach the capital by tomorrow if we hold pace," he said.
"We hold pace," I replied.
He nodded. "I'll have the men clean their armor before we enter. The king will want them presentable."
"Clean armor will not save them," I said.
He gave a dry laugh. "No, but it keeps the scribes from writing them as beggars."
By dusk, we made camp for the last time. The fires were smaller now, the wood damp. I could see the faint glow of Orlanis far in the distance, a pale light against the horizon.
Torrin came to me once more, his expression uneasy. "The men talk, my lord. They say the creature was a sign. That the cults have found new faith."
"Faith is a word for weakness," I said. "We have no use for it."
He looked at the fire. "Then what do we have?"
"Discipline," I said. "And the heart to hold it."
He nodded and left.
The night passed quietly. No dreams, only the sound of men turning in their sleep and the hiss of rain returning for a brief hour. When dawn came, the sky was silver.
We marched the final stretch in silence. The land began to change—stone roads instead of mud, fields fenced and tilled, the smell of smoke from homes. Farmers watched us pass, bowing their heads but never smiling. To them, Aura Knights were half gods and half monsters.
As we neared the city, the walls of Orlanis came into view. They rose high and wide, white stone streaked with gray. The gates were lined with guards, their spears upright and faces stern. The banners of the Five Orders hung from the towers, each marked with its color. Red for Colardio, blue, green, black, and gold for the others. Above them all, the sigil of the crown—a white sun upon a crimson field.
The men straightened their backs as we approached. The Whites began to hum the march of Orlanis, low and rough.
I looked up at the gates and felt the familiar weight in my chest. Home, though it had never felt like it.
Captain Harn rode ahead and signaled the herald. The gates opened slowly, the iron groaning like an old wound. Beyond them lay the city—wet stone streets, smoke rising from a hundred chimneys, and the faint toll of a bell.
The capital waited. The king would want answers.
I adjusted the lion mask, the cold metal pressing against my skin.
The march was over. The real work had yet to begin.