Confucius had his Analects; the Carpenter's Son had his Gospels; the Enlightened One had his Sutras. Aldric's speeches had not yet earned the status of holy scripture, but every night after the Conclave, beneath the guttering light of tallow candles, literate monks diligently scratched his words onto scraps of parchment, preserving the knowledge for the dark days ahead.
When the Conclave finally broke, the attendees lingered at the monastery for two more days. They were hungry—not for the pottage in the hall, but for the Light. They craved the title of Sunwalker.
Aldric was a giant among them, his power a roaring bonfire compared to their flickering candles. In his own mind, he was a master of his craft, his skills honed and his gear forged in the fires of a thousand battles. The few Sunwalkers he had already anointed were like fledglings, their magic shallow and their experience thin. On a true battlefield, a seasoned knight in full plate would likely cut them down before they could whisper a prayer.
And yet, to these people who had nothing, that flicker of light was everything. It was hope given form. During those two days, the courtyard was a cacophony of debate. Men shouted their interpretations of the Solar Core; others crawled through the dust of the Great Hall to the spot where Aldric had stood, declaring their resolve through fasts and vigils.
Even the more tempered men were moved. Sir Theodore Wells took a dagger and, with clumsy, shaking hands, spent a night carving a Seven-Pointed Sun into a block of oak. He swore to carry the icon to the world's end to prove his devotion.
To Aldric, much of this felt like hollow theater—acts that harmed the body without tempering the soul. He sought out the Sparrow, hoping the old man could talk sense into them. He found the monk sitting on a mounting block in the yard, surrounded by wide-eyed acolytes.
"The Sun hangs high," the Sparrow was saying, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "Its heat falls upon the Great Lord and the beggar alike. It does not choose between the wolf and the lamb. But our world is a jagged, broken thing, and the unfairness of it grieved the Sun. So, he drew a portion of his spirit and became the Father, holding the scales to teach us justice..."
Aldric waited until the Sparrow paused, then pulled him aside. "Sparrow, the new brothers... it's too much. Some are starving themselves, others are flagellating their backs, or standing staring at the sun until they go blind. This isn't piety. It's madness."
The Sparrow looked at him, his gaunt face unreadable. "Who would you have me stay, Captain? And why?"
"The zealots! Faith shouldn't be a race to see who can suffer most."
"And how else should they show their hearts?" the Sparrow countered. "These men are sons of the soil. They have no gold to offer, no lands to pledge. In this world, the only things they truly own are their bodies and their time. They offer them to you with reckless abandon because they have nothing else to lose. They are screaming at you that they are ready for the Light."
Aldric hesitated. "But I gave the right of sponsorship to you and the others..."
"And do you think anyone in this sept understands the Sun better than the man who brought it?" the Sparrow interrupted. "You call the Sunwalker's path a burden. If it is a weight, should we not seek as many shoulders as possible to carry it? You are overthinking the politics of a miracle, Lightbringer."
Aldric left the Sparrow and walked toward the village smithy, needing the rhythm of the hammer to clear his head. But at the monastery gates, he stopped.
Martha was leading a group of village girls in the yard. They didn't have spears; they had long, shaved poles of ash. Their movements were blurringly fast, the crack-crack of wood echoing against the stone walls.
These girls were dressed in tunics and breeches, their hair tied back with rough twine. Under the guidance of Martha and Beth—the only two women of the Dawnguard who had followed Aldric from the North—they were training with a ferocity that turned Aldric's stomach. They weren't sparring; they were hunting. Each thrust of the wooden pole was aimed at the throat, the groin, or the eyes.
A red-haired girl landed a stinging blow to her opponent's stomach, sending the other girl to her knees, gasping for air. Aldric tapped Martha on the shoulder.
"Martha, this is too much. They're farm girls, not spear-wives from the frozen wastes. You'll break them before they ever see a real fight."
Martha signaled the girls to halt. She turned, her brow furrowed in a sharp, defensive line. "And what is the difference, Captain? They are my age. They have the same strength in their arms."
Aldric sighed. "War is a man's business, Martha. Let them tend the wounded, or the fields."
Martha crossed her arms, her eyes flashing with a cold, simmering resentment. "Do you think we are too fragile to kill? Do you think a man's blade cares if the hand holding it is soft? Why must we be the ones to wipe the filth from the dying while the men get the glory of the shield? If I am to die, I would rather take a monster to the grave with me than wait like a sheep for the butcher."
She turned to the circle of girls. "Is that right, sisters?"
A tall, blonde girl stepped forward, bowing her head but keeping her gaze steady. "Lightbringer, a iron pot and a wooden spoon did not save my mother when the mummers came. They will not avenge her now."
A smaller girl with chestnut hair nodded fiercely. "I've helped my father slaughter lambs since I was five! If the knights come back, I'll show you I can gut a man just as well!"
Aldric looked at the faces—hard, determined, and hollowed by grief. He realized his own arrogance. He had been trying to protect them from a world that had already broken them.
"If you wish to be warriors," Aldric said, his voice grave, "I will not stop you. But know this: in the line, there are no women. There are only soldiers. You will receive no mercy from the enemy, and no special care from me. Can you live with that?"
Martha's mouth twitched into a sharp, satisfied smile. "That is all we ever wanted, Captain."
Aldric pulled Martha aside as the drills resumed. "If I were to bypass the Sunwalkers and anoint those I see fit... would the others resent it?"
Martha looked him in the eye. "The Light is yours to give. Why do you care what we think? We follow you, Aldric. If you told us to march into the Red Keep and pull the boy-king from his throne, we would strap on our mail without a word. Just lead us."
Aldric returned to the Great Hall. He stood upon the dais and signaled for Brother Cleary to ring the bronze bell. As the hall filled with the desperate and the devout, Aldric raised his hands for silence.
"At sunrise tomorrow," Aldric announced, his voice booming in the rafters, "I will return to this spot. Anyone who seeks the Sun-Spark, come before me. Tell me why you wish to carry the Light. If your heart is true and your purpose serves the Sun, I will anoint you myself."
The hall erupted in a frantic murmur.
"But hear me!" Aldric's voice cut through the noise. "The Spark only takes root in a heart that seeks the Light. If you come for power, for gold, or for vengeance alone, the Light will reject you. You have one chance. Spend this night in thought. If you doubt the future I have painted, then wait. Watch us. See if our deeds match our words. A Sunwalker has no self; their life belongs to the Sun. If you are ready to give everything, then stand before me at dawn."
He refused the immediate pleas for anointing, forcing them back into the night. It was a restless evening for everyone within the walls. The allure of power was great, but the cost—becoming an enemy of every lord in the Seven Kingdoms—was a terrifying shadow.
In a small, cramped cell at the end of the lower barracks, a dwarf brother lay with his hands behind his head, staring at the thatch.
"Meribald," he whispered to the man in the next cot. "Will you go to the dais tomorrow?"
"I will," Meribald replied. He was in his fifties, a man with hands like cracked leather and a face carved by forty years of walking the Riverlands. He pulled a thin wool blanket over his chest. "I have half my circuit left to walk. If I carry the Light, perhaps I can save one more soul before the winter takes me."
"But is this 'Sun-God' real?" the dwarf asked. "The books say nothing of it."
Meribald closed his eyes, his breathing slow and rhythmic. "I cannot read, brother. I only know what I have seen. For forty years, I have walked from Maidenpool to the Trident, marrying the kind and shriving the dying. I have seen the same good people feed me one year and be bones in a ditch the next. Their children starve while the lords feast. If the Sun offers them a day more of life, or a way to fight back, I do not care what the books say. I don't think the Seven care much for books either."
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