“The kings and queens of Polus are not inducted through blood, but rather by fate. Once the previous ruler dies, the Will of Freedom chooses another to take up its mantle, but what makes this process difficult to predict is that the new Inheritor can come from anywhere in the nation. There is no test or method to trace its passing. One day, the Monarch’s Wings will simply manifest on a Polus citizen’s back. The chosen could either be a royal with noble blood or even a countryside farmer who had never laid eyes on the capital. I was the latter."

  —King Ascalon, Ruler of the Polus Monarchy

  ———

  Ascalon

  Upon the final closing of Lorelai’s reveal, a glorious festival engulfs the city for three long days and nights. When sadness abates, one must shed tears of happiness in order to truly move on, but the celebrations will not last forever. Eventually, normalcy will return, and the kingdom must be prepared for when the Caelum forces cease their passivity. The war shall continue as it always has, and so while the people revel and cheer outside, the occupants of the castle gather in the throne room to discuss the future.

  “Everyone, I have called you here today for a matter of utmost importance,” Ascalon declares to the court. “We have just received information from those of the frontline concerning the empire’s movements. Chancellor Gadreel, would you please?”

  “Certainly, my liege,” the elder says. He takes to the stand with a belly noticeably more plump than the prior day. His face is flushed bright, grimacing from an evening of copious intoxication, and though his waddle is quite humorous, he nonetheless settles in place and speaks with a clear vigor devoid of slurs. “Ever since the first withdrawal of those dastardly heathens, we have been maintaining ever a vigilant eye on their activities. The Templars and Sarathiel of the Steel’s Throne have engaged in a few odd skirmishes, but nothing to the extent of what we have faced before. The border remains at an impasse. What is rather curious, however, is the absence of their commander: Libevich the Manslayer.”

  The very mention of that monster’s name brings shudders to everyone in the room. Even Ascalon cannot prevent his leg from twitching in worry, for that woman is a catastrophe in every sense of the word: a living disaster, one who will not hesitate to destroy the world if it means satisfying her bloodlust.

  So that beckons the question… why has she retreated?

  “I imagine that crone of all people would be most against the Grand General’s command,” Ascalon utters.

  “Indeed, the wicked creature knows naught but carnage and death. Which is why it is most suspicious when she vanished, and upon closer investigation we have discovered that her forces have been redirected to the Arch Magus’s territory where Gravitas once was stationed.”

  And thus is released to the world a collective sigh of relief. The Arch Magus is not one who is willing to involve his people in this war, but hesitation does not necessarily mean neutrality: Faust is a smart man, and an opportunity like this is one he will gladly take advantage of.

  “I see. Yes, that is reasonable. Without the Immovable One’s command over gravity, it would be difficult to defend against the Meteor of Faust. Xeros has no choice but to thin his army’s ranks.”

  “Ah, but that is not all, my liege,” Gadreel says with a twinkle in his eyes. “Libevich isn’t the only scourge who has bid departure. No, there is another, one who hadst hidden themself away in the capital of smog for many moons… until now.”

  “Impossible. Are you referring to?”

  “Yes, the Grand General. Xeros is no longer on Caelum soil.”

  An outburst of speculation and hectic ramblings drown the court as if almost by command, and officials from all sides direct a storm of questions at the chancellor whilst leaving no room for him to reply. “How can this be?” one exclaims. “After all these years, only now he deigns to reveal himself?” shouts another. “This must be a ploy. He should be busier than ever with his commander’s death!” And so on, and so on again. The chancellor almost explodes from rage, but thankfully Ascalon interjects before the mood worsens.

  “Everyone, calm yourselves!” he shouts. “Please, save your questions until after the chancellor is finished with his report. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, your majesty,” they reply.

  “Very well. You may continue, Gadreel.”

  “Many thanks, my liege,” he says, turning his head to give a rather rude gesture to those in the back before returning with a scoff. “Eh-hem, as I was saying, The Grand General is no longer amongst his territory. He departed a week prior, upon the day Lorelai had returned to us, on a voyage to some manner of location in the east.”

  “The east? How odd. Aside from the Augurium Thaumaturgy farther up north, therein lies nothing in that land but barren plains and—”

  No, there is such a nation out there, if it can even be called that: a domain Ascalon has only heard of in books and passing records, one embroiled in a constant age of strife. That is, until ten years ago when a certain man rose to power and seized control over the wandering nomads of the Steppe. Not even his name is known, only a moniker. A title that evokes pause.

  “The Overlord,” Ascalon grunts. “Xeros seeks to form an alliance with the ruler of the Steppe.”

  The King half expects for the court to erupt once again, but instead there is only silence. And not the silence that comes from fear or shock or even confusion; rather, they do not know what to think, for the Polus’s grasp of the current situation in the Steppe can be summarized in one word: nothing. Whether it be about the nomads or the various tribes under that arid sky, none of them can be contacted. Any attempts in recent years have always resulted in the disappearance of their delegation.

  Suffice to say, the Overlord does not welcome visitors.

  “How trustworthy is this information?” Ascalon questions.

  “Certain, my liege. Unearthed by Templar Joshua of the High Seraph, himself.”

  “Really? That is comforting. I know none other who—”

  “… Dirty sand-blood.”

  Ascalon stops. The court officials gasp. The world in all its movement and sound and reality halts in a frozen moment of sheer, uncomfortable eternity. And as the King slowly turns his head toward the source of the interruption, a hot, boiling rage seethes from inside his chest. Pounding. Threatening to explode.

  But he smothers it, that vile feeling in his throat, and maintains his calm. Anger will serve him no good; however, that does not mean he will allow such slander to be spewed so freely.

  “Name,” Ascalon says with a cold rumble.

  “Pontius Power, your majesty,” replies the offender, and Ascalon can see plainly the fright dripping from their brow. But there is no remorse in those eyes, no apology. They are only regretful of being caught.

  “I know you. An elder of the conservative faction, am I correct?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “I see. And do you know why you have been called?”

  “But your grace, with all due respect to the chancellor, can we really trust the words of one who is not of Polus origin—”

  “Joshua Yahweh was raised and trained in our fair kingdom just like any other. He has proven his worthiness, manifested the Seraph’s wings, and earned the qualifications to become a Templar. I have faith in his loyalty, no matter the place of his birth.”

  “Still, he is of the desert folk—”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Sir Pontius,” Ascalon warns. “I know you have good intentions, but I will not tolerate such disrespectful conduct toward one of our own. Prejudice has no clemency in our court, nor shall it be allowed to fester amongst our people. Am I clear?”

  The elder shrinks into themself as they mutter a weak “Yes, your majesty” before slithering back into the audience. Only when they disappear is Ascalon allowed to let out a quiet sigh, but he cannot be fully at ease. The highborns have always held questionable beliefs, and it is inevitable for there to be some discourse, but the King is dumbfounded that they would spout such nonsense aloud before so many others.

  It is truly astounding, their recklessness. Or perhaps boldness. Either result is lamentable, but unfortunately, now is not the time to address their behavior. It would be best to move on from the topic whilst the air is still amiable.

  “Regardless of Joshua’s background,” Ascalon continues. “We must fully consider the possibility of a united front between the Grand General and the Overlord. I know not how Xeros succeeded in contacting the Steppe’s ruler, but the fact he only endeavors to do so now speaks of his desperation. Nox Caelum is currently shaken; it will not be that way forever. If that man truly does succeed in fostering an alliance, then the war will only worsen with time, and not even the Arch Magus’s support shall be of much use. We must decide here on how best to cripple their forces.”

  “Ah, but why must we merely cripple them, my liege?” Gadreel says with a tut and wag of his finger. “I do believe you remember mine previous proposal?”

  “… To serve as the aggressors, ourselves.”

  “Indeed. And I daresay there shall never be a moment more fortuitous than now to end this long, bitter war.”

  “I understand, Gadreel. I do.” But, though Ascalon does not want to admit it, he is still fearful of the deaths that shall come with his decision. Of the consequences if they are to fail.

  He remembers vividly the pain of losing Lorelai: the despair, the regret, but above all else how helpless he had felt knowing there was naught he could personally do. There is no greater horror than watching one’s beloved suffer. And if the kingdom’s forces truly do move in earnest, then he has no doubt Lorelai would march alongside them. That is who she is: a hero resolved to endure the world’s weight. If she is to be lost a second time… Ascalon does not know if he will ever recover.

  However, the mere thought of squandering their only chance over such a selfish reason puts shame to his very name. It is always about Ascalon’s own fears, his own personal desires, but that is not the way of a ruler. A king must do what is best for his people, and if he is to be complacent now, then failure is all that awaits no matter the outcome. Ascalon does not want to waste this sliver of hope.

  From the very beginning, he should have had greater trust in his people. His knights. And in Lorelai—trust that no matter what may come, she will always return. Even amidst the darkest of hours, her promise remains unbroken, and so Ascalon will fulfill his own promise to serve the people and to bring about a tomorrow without worry.

  No matter what they shall come to face, Polus will persevere. Thus is the King’s Decree.

  “Chancellor,” Ascalon says, rising to his feet and glancing over all in the courtroom. “Send a missive to the frontlines. I command for Sarathiel and every last Templar to return to the capital. We shall discuss our plan of attack once everyone has gathered.

  “My liege? Does… does this mean?”

  “Yes, my friend. No more deliberation. Let us end this tiresome war once and for all.”

  ———

  The Knight

  The courtroom has transformed since Ascalon’s order to recall the Templars. Where once was but empty space in the center is now occupied by a grand, circular table of jewels. It is a very shiny sight, and a familiar one as well, for this is the same table Arthur once gathered his adjutants around.

  The Knight hasn’t expected to see such an old thing still around, but that is the nature of the world, or so it supposes. Man’s products do ever tend to outlive their creators. It is no surprise; they are a fleeting kind, leading lives so very short. And yet, in that brief period of existence, their journey is remembered in the form of a fable. A legend, one spanning for all of eternity.

  It can still remember them clearly, those seven warriors and their lord. The Templars the Knight has met so far matches their ancestors similarly in regards to personality - with the exception of Surasha - but they do have their own traits separate from blood’s legacy. Yes, it knows their habits well, considering it has spent the latter days stalking them intensely throughout the castle.

  Deborah is a lively girl. She completes her tasks in a nonchalant and gentle manner whilst always ensuring to trap those nearby into a lengthy, inescapable conversation: a conversation that usually amounts to unimportant small talk or purposeless ramblings. She dislikes sweet food. Her weakness is mediocre muscle balance—neither area of the body particularly honed. A swift rush into close quarters combat should be all that is needed to render her vulnerable.

  Dismas is a solitary man. And perceptive as well. The Knight has had slight difficulty in trailing the Dominion’s head, for his sight extends to the shadows in every corner, and he prefers to handle his work isolated from the others in his private chamber. Still, he has his warmth. The moments when Dismas does take leave is when his fondness is fully displayed in the short interactions with his fellows. He prefers dried nuts. His weakness is feeble core strength, resulting in poor posture and a lax slouch. A blow to the abdomen will leave him paralyzed.

  Surasha is meticulous, very meticulous. Every day, she organizes a daily list of tasks and determines the most efficient order of completion: the estimated time it shall take, contact information of those involved, and so on. She follows this list with rigorous precision, and very rarely does she veer off her intended schedule. This unwavering nature has inspired both awe and bafflement from her peers, but nonetheless they treat Surasha with great respect. She avoids starches and grains. Her weakness is subpar physical strength, of which she makes up for with a flexible body and swift mobility. Recommended course of extermination: overpower her with a quick assault.

  These three do not often have chance to meet amidst their respective duties, but they have gathered here now, for today is when the last four Templars are set to arrive. Even Annalay has been released from her cell for this occasion, and she stands side by side along the Knight as they accompany Ascalon by the throne.

  Her usual brash demeanor has disappeared, replaced by a grim expression. Her sentiment is shared by the others in the room; they know the kingdom’s fate lies on the fringes, and this assembly shall be its turning point.

  “… Ack, this tension is killing me,” Deborah groans, letting her head thud onto the table as she buries herself in her arms. “I thought I would be happy seeing the others after so long, but the mood just isn’t right.”

  “You’re concerned about the wrong things, Deborah,” Surasha says with a sigh, but her body betrays an otherwise stern tone. She leans deep into her seat, foot tapping restlessly against the floor, and her hands grip her knees firm as she shifts about uncomfortably in a guarded position. “Of course we’re all tense. For Stars’ sake, this is the first time in decades that all the Templars and Thrones will be in one place. Nevermind that we’re leaving the front line completely unguarded, to think we’re even considering pushing into Caelum territory. If this goes wrong, our nation will literally be wiped from the map. Try to be a bit more serious about this.”

  “Now, now, go easy on ‘er, lass,” Dismas interjects. Compared to the other two, he appears to be the most composed, but there is still a subtle hint of concern in his gruff voice. “It’s hard to believe myself—that we’re finally tryin’ to fight back. Can’t say I’m against it, though; we can’t stay like this forever. Eventually, we would’ve had to change things, and when better to do so than the moment that bastard Xeros is off to foreign lands?”

  “Hah! I agree with the man,” Annalay guffaws. “Fancy timing, too. I was just about tired of defending all the time. Besides, do ya really think we’ll fail? The old crow only has Libevich and that alchemist freak Nokron left. Gravitas would’ve been a bit troublesome, but I heard he’s rotting in the Aeternum right now thanks to a lovely lady over here.”

  “Hehe, you honor me, Annalay,” the Knight says. “But do not let overconfidence take you. It is good to be prideful; however, war is volatile, full of surprises and hidden dangers. Too much pride will instead act as a poison. We should remain cautious - especially toward one so shrouded in uncertainty as the Grand General - and plan for the unexpected, no matter how unlikely it may be.”

  “Well said, Lorelai,” Ascalon chuckles. “And that is why we are here now. To plan. To devise. And to ensure without a shadow of doubt that this campaign will end in victory. Everything must be infallible, and there is no better method to assess possible variables than in the company of others. Even just one more perspective can be the defining factor in our success.”

  So he says, but the Knight has already devised an efficient plan of attack. From geography to available forces and even locations of the Caelum fortresses… it has studied this all. Still, it is not so bad to allow the others speak their minds first. It will be especially insightful in gleaming the natures of the others yet to arrive.

  If the Templars in the capital are responsible for defense, then the Templars of the frontlines are suited for warfare. Naturally, their dispositions will reflect as much, and they will be all the more difficult to control. But no one is bereft of weakness. All the Knight must do is find it.

  Suddenly, the air around them begins to shake and vibrate with anticipation. There is a great energy radiating from beyond, and it now trickles into the room with an intensely powerful aura. No, multiple, for they are of different qualities, all coinciding together with their own distinct characteristics.

  One roars afury with the impassioned ardor of molten magma.

  One whispers a deceitfully serene song of glacier and brine.

  One is enveloped by a myriad swarm of Creation and its blessings.

  And the last is barely intelligible. Small. Subdued. To the untrained observer, one would be unable to notice it, but the Knight isn’t fooled. It can feel a cunning, shifty wisp hiding amidst their peers. That aura is different from those of the Polus. It is much colder, more calculating, and detached from all worldly affairs.

  Among all the Knight has met so far, even the maniacal Satanael, the source of this unsettling chill is by far the most dangerous. For they are not ruled by madness: not by emotion or patriotism or even simple desire. No, whoever this may be is utterly, wholly apathetic. The complete opposite of Ascalon.

  The chamber’s doors part way, and an eager herald emerges from the gap with a long scroll trailing behind.

  “Eh-hem, ladies, gentlemen, and his majesty of the court,” they decree. “Entering the esteemed knights of the round table’s lineage. Please bid a warm welcome to the four warring Templars.”