The night carried cold wind with it, drifting quietly through the capital as an owl called out somewhere in the darkness above.
At the capital walls, one thousand three hundred troops had already taken position.
Archers lined the upper ramparts in rows of fifty some of them are mages, arrows tipped carefully with oil before the mages beside them refined each one further, adding something more destructive beneath the flame.
Massive crossbows were mounted at intervals along the battlements, loaded and angled outward, bolts thick enough to punch through reinforced steel.
Below, was the Spartans, stood at the front line.
Three hundred of them divided cleanly into three divisions, one hundred each positioned at the front, the right flank, and the left.
Spears sharpened, helmets secured.
The cold wind moved through their formation and caught their red capes naturally, the fabric flowing behind them in unison like something out of an old painting.
To their side stood the Vikings.
Two hundred and fifty of them, broad, heavy, and unbothered by the cold in a way that made the night feel like nothing to them, some carried massive hand axes that most men couldn't swing once, others held spears or had bows slung across their backs, each one built for a different kind of damage.
They didn't particularly enjoy standing beside Spartans.
That much was visible without anyone saying a word the way they kept their distance, the quiet tension running between the two groups like a current.
But they were here.
Shoulder to shoulder under the same kingdom's banner, and whatever their differences were, every warrior standing in that courtyard tonight was family in the way that only soldiers understand.
Some bonds aren't chosen, they're were forged.
Somewhere within the Spartan line stood two familiar faces.
Rook held the right flank, standing at the head of his division with his spear planted firmly beside him, Omen stood nearby, calm as always.
"Finally got out of that stupid recovery..." Rook muttered, his tone carrying a familiar edge of irritation.
Omen let out a short laugh but said nothing.
Behind the Spartans, the Thespians just arrived and they began filing into formation, Rook caught movement over his shoulder and turned slightly, a figure was walking through the gap between units, moving without hesitation.
Commander Demas Iron-Chord.
Rook's expression shifted.
"You son of a bitch..." he said directly all of sudden, already stepping forward.
The two met with a handshake that was less a greeting and more a contest, knuckles whitening slightly as their grips locked together.
"Didn't think you'd actually make it," Rook said, genuine surprise beneath the words.
Demas tilted his head with a slow grin.
"Surprise? Now come on..." He tightened his grip once more. "That all you've got, old man?"
The wind moved through the capital walls again, cold and steady, war was close now, everyone standing in that courtyard already knew it.
Seven hundred Thespians just arrive.
Then the gates opened...
The Four Pillars stepped through.
The atmosphere shifted the moment they crossed the threshold something in the air changed, thickened, the way it does before a storm that hasn't arrived yet.
Every soldier nearby felt it without fully understanding why, they simply knew, instinctively, that something powerful had just entered the field.
Grimwatch came first.
The black knight moved with the kind of weight that had nothing to do with armor, dents still marked his plate from battles most men wouldn't have survived.
He had faced a Project X soldier from the Pandemonium Legion and walked away standing.
The Honorable of Fate, they called him, Leader of the Four Pillars, the title suited him without needing explanation.
Elyndra walked beside him.
A thousand spells lived somewhere behind those eyes, The Thousandfold Master of Spells moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had already calculated every possible outcome and found none of them particularly concerning.
Her presence carried its own kind of authority, different from Grimwatch's but no less absolute.
Alaric followed, adjusting his posture slightly as he walked, gloved fingers resting against his polished cane with practiced elegance.
The Eternal Caller.
He said nothing yet, simply observed the formation ahead with the careful eyes of someone who sees a battlefield the way others see a game board.
Then came Shay.
His old mask was gone that broken one cracked and bloodied from before had been replaced with something new.
A cleaner face a wider smile carved into the surface.
The Laughing Trickster moved through the courtyard and somewhere nearby, someone in the ranks actually smiled back without meaning to.
That was what Shay did.
Even here, even now.
The Four Pillars moved to the front without hesitation, stepping past the Spartans, past the Vikings, past the archers and the commanders and the war machinery loaded and waiting.
They took their place at the head of it all because that was simply where they belonged.
They were not here to observe.
They were here to fight to hold the line, to protect this kingdom at any cost necessary.
The army behind them stood a little straighter.
While the army continued preparing around them, the Four Pillars gathered.
Grimwatch spoke first, his eyes moving across the formations spread out before him.
"Is this all the kingdom has?"
Alaric adjusted his top hat with one gloved hand before resting his cane at his side, his expression remaining composed as always.
"Well, I will say we have three warrior groups represented here. Spartans, Thespians, and Vikings." He paused briefly. "Thirteen hundred warriors in total standing on our side."
Then his tone shifted, the elegance still present but something heavier underneath it now.
"Though I'm not confident that number is enough, not against soldiers carrying the enhancement substance." He chose the next words carefully. "The ones who engineered compound designed to amplify physical strength and magical output far beyond natural limits, it forces the body past every restraint it was built with, unnatural power, forged specifically for the Pandemonium Legion..."
Silence followed that for a moment.
Elyndra crossed her arms slowly.
"What I can't understand," she said quietly, "is how they acquired something so valuable, something that dangerous was never meant to exist as a weapon."
She let the thought settle before continuing.
"And this war... it shouldn't have reached this point, if we had understood what caused it sooner truly understood it we might have stopped it before the first soldier ever moved.."
Nobody answered that.
Nearby, Shay leaned against a wall with his new mask tilted slightly upward, a deck of cards already moving around him floating, spiraling slowly around his body in a wide circular motion, rotating with the kind of lazy precision that looked effortless and wasn't.
He watched the cards drift without expression.
Then one broke from the spiral.
He caught it cleanly between two fingers without looking.
"I'll tell you what." His voice carried that familiar lightness, the smile in it even if the mask already wore one for him. "I'm not holding back anymore."
The card disappeared between his fingers.
No one doubted him.
Whether this kingdom would stand or fall under what was coming that answer belonged to the war ahead but somewhere beneath the weight of that question, something quiet was also happening.
Inside the capital streets, citizens moved with quiet urgency homes were being shuttered, belongings gathered, sorted, carried, families prepared to evacuate through routes that royal soldiers kept clear and orderly, guiding the people through the streets with calm authority firm enough to keep order, gentle enough to keep the fear from spreading.
The city was holding itself together.
For now...
Will the kingdom win this war? or suffer what they done to those they forget about...