I drew a ragged breath, breaking the surface of my forced slumber. The feverish glow of Lapurum's funeral pyre had been replaced by the Lifegiver's healing light. I could already feel His warmth on my skin, quickening the recovery of my burns beneath their cloth dressings.
I pushed myself upright from the stretcher, my movements still slow and deliberate. I had to find my footing quickly and attend to my duties—injuries were never an excuse beneath the Lifegiver's gaze, not for us at least.
I gave the tent a brief survey before beginning my preparations. The sweet tang of the Keeper's essence still lingered within the canvas walls. A sudden jolt of unease ran through me, the phantom trace of her presence stirring as if she had never truly left.
I slowly unwrapped the linen bandages from my left arm. The skin beneath smelled of herbs and honey from the salve. Then I loosened the wrappings
around my midsection. My flesh was marred where the armor had pressed against it—marked by the echo of the Hierophant's Will that had passed through me when I touched him.
I searched for the pouch of old wine I kept in storage. The leather wineskin felt warm and weathered in my hand. I pulled the stopper and breathed in the familiar scent of home. One small sip, a deep breath—and I began washing the salve from my skin.
The carmine liquid stung every patch of exposed muscle and sinew it touched, forcing my teeth together. The light from outside crept into the space, and the shadows around me did little to ease the pain. But I needed my flesh clean—pure—for the Lifegiver's gift to unshackle me from the burden of these wounds.
My armor waited for me, neatly placed upon its rack—still streaked with soot, dirt, and blood. I decided against wearing it today. Leaving my torso bare would help with the regeneration of my wounds, and returning to full strength was of the utmost importance now.
The Keeper's words still gnawed at my mind. "The Lifegiver will ask much of you," she had said. What more could I possibly surrender to the Gods? How had I already failed without knowing it? What else could the Lifegiver need of me that I had left wanting?
The thoughts ricocheted within the walls of my mind, offering no answer in return.
I took my first step into the morning light. Hours had passed since my last glimpse of the camp, though it felt as if ages had gone by. The encampment still lived, still moved and worked, but its rhythm was not as before. It had turned sluggish and sickly. A steady stream of pained groans and wasted cries filled the air, forming a solemn dirge that had replaced nature's own music.
The chill air against my bare chest and torso stung, making me twitch and flex the regenerating bands of muscle and flesh. The pain was welcome, for once—it drew me sharper, pulling me further from the haze I'd left behind in the tent.
"Good morning, Praefectus," barked the guard standing post outside the Command tent. "Blessed be the Lifegiver for your quick recovery," he added, his gaze lingering on my wounds and his face twisting in equal parts shock and awe.
Witnessing a wounded paladin was not common, so I couldn't blame him.
"Thank you, Legionary," I replied. "Could you point me toward Legatus Varian's location?"
Unease flickered across the young man's face. "I'm afraid I cannot, sir," he said, eyes dropping to the ground.
"And why is that, Legionary?" I asked, letting some steel edge into my voice.
"You see, Praefectus… Legatus Varian hasn't returned since I took over guard duty." His tone carried apology more than explanation.
"And when was that?" I pressed.
"When was what?" he stammered, clearly flustered.
"When did you take over guard duty, soldier?" I said, my patience thinning. "And try to form your replies properly when addressing your commanding officer."
His eyes widened; for a heartbeat he seemed frozen in embarrassment.
"Come on, lad, speak up," I urged, giving him a light pat on the back—an attempt to ease his nerves and coax out the answer I needed.
"I've been guarding you since they carried you back from the…" he hesitated, "…from the incident, sir."
"And Legatus Varian has not returned since?"
"No, sir. He's likely overseeing the work near the pits."
"The pits?" I asked, a cold edge of dread creeping into my voice.
"Yes, sir. From what I heard before posting here, they're outside the camp, near where Lapurum's east gate used to stand." He sounded proud now, relieved to have something solid to report.
"Very well, Legionary. Thank you for the information," I said, ending the exchange and moving on.
"On your command, Praefectus!" he called out, striking his fist to his chest in salute as I turned down the sand trail through the camp.
Yesterday's siege had taken its toll on us, and a brief walk through the camp made the fact painfully clear. The absence of numbers was staggering—and those who remained were not left unmarked.
Gathered around small firepits, soldiers and the remaining priests tended to the wounds of others. Groans and prayers mingled in the air. Most of the injured bore the marks of the terrible weaponry our enemies had unleashed—limbs mangled and torn, leaving many amputated, for there was no chance of healing from such ruin.
Some were fortunate enough to have suffered only from the shock of the blasts, bruised but whole. Those had the best chance of returning to the line, and the priests seemed to favor them in their ministrations.
Pillars of smoke still rose in the distance from the city's direction—thin now, withering slowly into the morning sky.
I continued down my path. The longer I basked beneath the watchful gaze of the Lifegiver, the more my wounds faded from me. New skin had begun to form—raw and tender beneath the light.
Amid all I could gather from observation, the absence of funeral rites—and the lack of any smoldering bonfires—made me ponder the pits my guard had mentioned moments before. Our losses were indeed great, yet the use of mass graves in place of proper processions was reserved only for cases of extreme devastation.
That thought led me to a single, grim conclusion: the casualties must have been immense on both sides. The only measure of their number now would be the depth of those pits.
I'll learn soon enough, I thought as I neared the end of my route through the camp. An uncommonly large number of men were gathered around the iron cages meant for the prisoners. It wasn't unusual for soldiers to vent their frustrations on captives after a battle—but the size of this crowd was different. Something was off.
"Attention!" barked one of the senior officers as he saw me. "Behave yourselves and step in line—the Praefectus is with us!"
At once the crowd began to move and part, a measure of structure rising from their chaos. I was accustomed to those under my command showing their veneration through obedience, but today's crowd felt… different. It was true that most bore the familiar mix of anxiety, pressure, and duty upon their faces—yet something new had slipped in.
Fear.
They didn't want me to see it; that much was clear from how tightly they clung to the façade of discipline. But some were slipping. As I advanced, the crowd opened fully before me. Glances darted, shoulders tensed, men shifted just enough to put another body between us.
They are afraid of me, I thought. And I could not blame them. Those who had witnessed yesterday's "incident" would rightly fear what they now knew I was capable of. Most of them were too young to have served long enough to see one of my Order forced to unleash the powers bestowed upon us.
A few of the men lingered near the cage, still transfixed by its contents—so much so that they dismissed the orders being shouted at them. My curiosity gained the upper hand, and in turn, I dismissed their defiance and pressed forward, eager to see what kind of prisoner could hold their attention more than their commander's voice.
The odor seeping from the iron cage was a blend of wet straw and the metallic tang of blood, undercut by the faint bass of smoldered wood. The air rang with the clatter of iron bars, struck by the soldiers' taunting gestures—but the noise began to fade as they reined themselves in when I came to their side.
"Get in line with the others," I commanded, keeping my tone calm. I wanted to survey the small box of misery before me without having to think of them.
"On your command, Praefectus," one of them answered, his voice too loud as he scrambled to pull another of his fellows away from the cage.
"Be careful, sir," a straw-haired lad murmured as he moved to join the line. His eyes didn't dare meet mine. "There are daimons inside that cage," he finished, then rushed after the others.
The way he spoke told me the words were hard for him to utter—as if he were revealing a secret meant to stay buried. It made me think how we had come as liberators of these people, and in the span of a single day, through their actions, they had become daimonic in the eyes of my own men.
Men and women alike filled the cage. Defeat, fear, and hatred colored their faces, painting an atmosphere of aggressive compliance. Some tended to others—their wounds, their grief, their souls. Words of compassion passed quietly among them, while mutters of exhausted frustration drifted toward me. No daimons in sight, only fractured and broken people confined in here.
I searched among the women, thinking that if one of the children had truly been captured, it would stay close to one of them for protection. It is the natural instinct of a child to seek its mother—or the nearest shape that might resemble one.
Nothing. All the maternal figures had their hands full with the wounded, and all of them were far too grown to be considered children. I kept searching, one face at a time.
And then I saw it.
In the far-left corner of the cage, a small figure was squatting, its head bowed toward the dirt at its feet, idly poking at it with a thin twig.
It must have been one of the figures from the walls. Its skin looked ashen-gray, likely from the smoke and fire it had endured before being taken captive. As I studied it further, its clothing struck me as strange. It wore a white—perhaps once white—blouse, the long sleeves rolled up to reveal two small yet sharply defined forearms. Heavy black wool trousers hung loose around its legs, and its feet were fitted with thick leather boots. Across its chest lay a tanned brown apron, the kind worn by artisans or smiths.
Its head remained bowed, eyes fixed on the scribbled lines it traced in the dirt with the twig.
I walked the perimeter of the cage for a closer look. My sympathy for its condition was matched only by my curiosity at its peculiar appearance.
I noticed my men beginning to murmur and cowardly back away as I closed on the child. What did they expect me to do to provoke such fear? Had I instilled so much dread in their hearts that they feared what I might do to a child? Had the things they had witnessed twisted their image of me so thoroughly?
I understood them the moment I too realized what I was truly looking at.
Two inquisitive, yellow, inhuman eyes looked back at me now. It was clear at last—its skin wasn't soot-stained or burned. It was ashen leather.
Its face, now lifted fully toward me, was sharp and animal-like: ears too long and expressive, fingers thin and ending in small points, a nose rigid and drawn too far. And those eyes… uncomfortably brimming with human emotion. Its features bore too much reason to be dismissed as beastly, yet no sane man could have called it human. My men had been right after all—daimons were indeed confined behind the iron bars.
"What are you?" I asked aloud, though the question was meant for myself as much as for it.
The creature's gaze broke from mine. Its yellow eyes wandered, its head turning slowly to the right, then left, as if to reassure itself of something unseen.
"It seems," it said at last, its voice deep—too deep for such a small frame—"that for the time being, you may call me a prisoner, sir."
The words were thickly accented but clear. Every assumption I had carried until that moment fell away with their sound.