The bells were still trembling when the six knights took the square. The villagers' torches bent before the whiter light descending from the armor—pale plates carved with golden lines, heavy linen cloaks sweeping the dust, the seal of the crown and the Sun embroidered on their chests. Children hid behind their mothers' skirts; men removed their hats; old women traced the sign of faith across their foreheads.
Seraphiel Duskbane dismounted first. Tall, beard trimmed, the two-handed blade resting on his shoulder with the ease of someone who knew it better than his own name. His cold eyes swept across the turmoil as though measuring distances, intentions, and sins.
"Reports. Now," he said, and his voice silenced the square.
Marcos Valefort, the vice-captain, was already moving, gathering testimonies with precision. His short cloak fluttered in the wind, and the halberd on his shoulders gleamed beneath the full moon. There was no haste, yet everything about him carried disciplined urgency.
Selene Draelith, serene, walked among the wounded with an ash staff and a silver rosary wrapped around her fingers. Whispers of blessings, a touch to a boy's temple, and the pain receded like a retreating tide. Theron Maelrik, by contrast, barely moved: a block of iron and faith, tower shield raised, eyes attentive to rooftops and corners—a silent guardian.
Elias Crownguard, the archer, slung his bow over his shoulder and leaned slightly, listening more than asking. A crooked smile appeared as he winked at a child peeking out.
"See? We don't bite," he said softly. "Only when people pray wrong."
The child stifled a laugh; the mother quickly pulled them back, uneasy. Elias raised his hands in apology.
"Just a joke, ma'am. A holy joke."
Marcos brought the reports to the captain in a brief sequence.
"Two men fleeing through the alleys: one young with gray eyes, the other injured, likely a work companion. There was 'mist'—" his voice did not change at the word "—and the villagers temporarily lost sight of them. Their direction points to the eastern side gate."
Seraphiel rotated his wrist slightly, and the blade traced an arc of light in the night.
"Anna."
She was already stepping forward, her gauntlets—white steel etched with runes—secured, her fingers cracking. Her braid was tied tight, her hunter's gaze already sensing the trail like a scent on the wind.
"Tracking active." Anna touched the stone, murmuring the chant. A nearly silver filigree of light slithered along the cobblestones, revealing recent footsteps. "The trail is warm, captain."
"You will go alone," Seraphiel said. "There will be no mistake."
Elias raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Wouldn't it be better to send someone to… say… hold her cape when the glory hits?"
Marcos shot him a disapproving look, but Selene answered first, gently:
"Grace doesn't need a cape, Elias."
"But it does enjoy an audience," he whispered, earning an almost-smile from Theron—rare as an eclipse.
Seraphiel did not smile. He simply nodded to Anna.
"Hunt. Bring them back alive if possible. The king wants answers, not ashes."
"Yes, captain."And she left—white and swift, the runes on her gauntlets flaring and dimming like breaths.
Five remained. The square slowly resumed its noise, though with respect. Men approached with fragments of testimony—"the box floated," "the gray eyes," "the mist that stole our sight." Selene listened, storing it all in memory; Marcos organized names and directions; Theron kept the living wall of his shield between people and order. Elias picked up a fallen torch and sniffed the smoke.
"Pine resin and… panic," he said, handing it back. "Fear has a scent, captain."
"Fear is useful. It loosens tongues," Seraphiel replied. "Reorganize. Two wings. Marcos, with me. Selene, cover the main road; Theron, seal the return routes. Elias, eyes above. Any signal—three arrows into the sky."
They nodded in unison. The captain's word was both law and habit.
They marched. The city opened before them like a corridor of stone and flame. Banners of the embroidered Sun hung from doorways, saints' images rested in wall niches, and the full moon reflected in old puddles. As they passed, the people fell silent; some knelt; others spat on the ground to ward off bad luck—and even those bowed their heads. The Order carried comfort and fear in equal measure.
Their sacred garments creaked with a clean sound: treated leather, chains of mail beneath the plates, silver buckles. Seraphiel's blade reflected the stained glass of a chapel; Marcos's halberd bore campaign marks, small polished scars; Elias's yew bow carried blessings carved along its grip; Theron's shield bore the scar of an old flame; Selene's staff held pale veins like running water.
Along the way, Elias could not resist:
"Captain, with all respect: if Anna knocks down half a wall, does that go in the report as a miracle or urban renovation?"
"It goes in as 'duty fulfilled,'" Marcos answered dryly before Seraphiel could. "And in your report it goes down as 'three fewer lines of humor.'"
Selene held back a laugh. Theron simply adjusted his shield.
"Focus," Seraphiel said. "The king waits. And the moon does not."
They climbed the wide slope that led to the heart of Etharyon. The royal palace rose like a stone ship above a sea of rooftops: polished walls, towers crowned with contained flames in lanterns, guards in blue cloaks opening the way. The main gate—dark wood, bronze bars—bore the relief of a crowned sun.
The Paladins' presence doubled the sentries. Each step echoed firmly across the paved stone, the same cadence that for centuries had taught the streets to recognize the Law.
In the outer atrium, a herald approached, his voice trained to announce, not ask:
"In the name of His Majesty, the King of Etharyon, the Order is welcome. There is unrest in the city. Your audience has been prepared."
Seraphiel raised two fingers, and the formation stopped instantly. The captain brushed the corner of his helm with a simple gesture, as though closing a march and opening a judgment.
"The Order answers," he said simply. "And without delay."
The gates opened with a sigh of bronze and wood. The light from the inner torches spilled out like liquid gold over the white plates. The people below could only see silhouettes entering the palace, whispering prayers—some for justice, others for vengeance.
And while the full moon fixed its pale eye over the city, the Order crossed the threshold.
Anna hunted in the shadows.The king awaited answers.And the night still had much to say.