“Holy Seraph’s, lad, what did you do?”

  “That was the Arsenal of the Maker, wasn’t it?”

  “Get him up. Fetch a healer to attend to us.”

  ‘Ori!? Ori!’ Sera’s screams added to the tumult.

  Ori groaned. The commotion inside his skull swelled as his consciousness returned.

  “I’m alright, Sera,” Ori lied, hoping the reassurance would cut down the noise battering his mind.

  ‘What in the Seraph’s name happened?’ Sera replied, apparently reassured not one bit.

  “I just need a minute,” he said, his bloodshot eyes trying to make sense of the world. He was back inside the chapel, mentally and physically this time, with a ring of armoured knights surrounding him. One gruff, armoured man with blue-and-gold trim and a particularly bushy moustache rolled Ori onto his side. He coughed wetly, his saliva salted with blood.

  “Lad, what happened? D’you offend the Maker Saint Donna?” the armoured man asked, once Ori’s eyes could focus.

  “...Looks like he was just spat out of the Maker’s arsehole.”

  “...Perhaps we get a diviner to see wot happened.”

  “...Never seen so much blood from the body of the living.”

  “...Looks like he soiled himself. Blood from every orifice, reckon he was cursed.”

  “...Nah. Lady Lavine said he was on The Path. Fortune waxes and wanes like the tide for sorry bastards such as this poor fella.”

  Commentary from a chorus of overlapping voices anchored Ori as he shrugged off the knight’s question and stood. “I’m fine,” he croaked, wiping blood from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. Unfortunately, there was little he could do about the rest of himself, feeling and smelling the appalling state of his lower half. Man’s got quite a bit worse than a squeaky bum, Ori groaned to himself.

  “What happened, lad?”

  Unsure what to reveal, and generally paranoid given his treatment to date, Ori chose to dissemble. “Not sure. Seemed like a dream. What did you see from your side?”

  Audible groans and gasps followed, as if he’d said or done something truly stupid. “That, young laddie, was the Arsenal of the Maker of Saint Donna. A one-per-age occurrence that, to this day, only a scant number of living witnesses remain to verify its legend. To be chosen is to have received an honour above all others, a boon as sure to better your future as any riches, artefact, or accolade.” The knight continued.

  Ori looked around, catching the gazes of the now dozens of men around him, their faces a mix of faltering interest, howling disappointment, and genuine despair. Ori frowned as he tried to work out just how he’d fucked up. “It would honour us if you could tell us just what happened inside the Arsenal.”

  “I… There were lots of weapons, but none of them were really to my liking, and I said so and…” A chorus of loud groans and mild shoving broke out, interrupting him. “What’s going on?”

  “Desperate men cling to hope, lad. Such as an eleventh-hour miracle like the Arsenal appearing to bless one of us on the eve of battle. Except, due to ignorance or arrogance, it seems you squandered this opportunity by insulting the Maker.”

  Ori’s frown deepened. Part of him wanted to lift morale and reassure the men around him, but he also knew that would be stupid. Beyond Crucible and Sera’s warnings to keep such details to himself, he wouldn’t be swinging a sword or casting fireballs in the battle to come, so it didn’t matter. Whatever he had received from the Maker Saint Donna was likely irrelevant to the upcoming battle anyway. So he simply shrugged, as if to confirm his blunder. “Didn’t know what it was. Felt like a dream. Besides, aren’t I supposed to just cast my aura and then get carried to the Lich?”

  “His soul changed.” A new speaker strode towards the crowd, his voice deep, resonant, and well-spoken. His armour was blackened steel, his aura a dim field that seemed to suffocate as much as it pressed down upon those too weak to resist. From him, Ori could feel mana that was, if not wrong, then an antithesis of his inherent affinity. Of the man himself, if he had to judge, he was likely another nobleman.

  “What d’you mean, his soul changed?” The first knight looked between them, eager for one or the other to spill.

  “In the light before the Arsenal departed the realm, his soul changed. His Page in the Library of Fate was rewritten, and not by some small degree.” The knight in black stepped forward, the gallery making way for him as they clung to the words of the nobleman warrior. “Though I would suggest that if Sir Summons wishes to keep such matters to himself, or at the very least not disclose such private matters to such a public audience, he is more than entitled to, and we should be more than willing to oblige.” The knight continued, his voice turning stern towards the end.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  As if given orders to disperse, the crowd of soldiers clanked and shuffled away from the altar, their voices echoing until the last of them closed the large chapel doors.

  In the silence that followed, Ori swept an anxious gaze across the men and women remaining. He gave a shallow nod, recognising the sole familiar face in Cordelia. The rest, including both men who’d spoken to him after his encounter with the Maker Saint Donna, while wildly different in flavour, all had auras that seemed in the same ballpark as Sera’s sister, making them likely to be people at the Sovereign realms, or close to it.

  “Let us introduce ourselves, shall we? I’m Lord Bartholomew of West Arragat, B-rank High Black Mahi of the Chromatic, and Grace Knight. I’ll be commanding our little endeavour, and in the unfortunate circumstance of you suffering a mortal blow, it will be my job to keep your soul around long enough for my associate here”—Bartholomew gestured to a female, middle-aged, blonde knight on his left—“to revive you, good as new.” Ori flinched as memories of the last trials and tortures flashed in his mind. “Not to worry. Should you truly wish to leave, I can’t keep you.”

  Ori could see an invisible golden sheen coating his pale skin and grey-speckled black hair. His jovial attitude and quick smiles did little to blunt the edge of his tall, foreboding presence and commanding aura. Grace Knight? Black Mage? Ori had plenty of questions, and was curious to see how those combinations of classes functioned in practice.

  “Lady Jasmine of House Mc’Alister. High White Mage.” The woman Bartholomew had gestured to nodded. “May I?” she asked.

  Ori had no idea what she intended and glanced between her, Bartholomew, and Cordelia for an explanation.

  “Just a useful cantrip for use in polite company, in situations such as yours,” she answered, her voice cool and polite.

  “Sure,” Ori said, and a familiar white light enveloped him. The sensation of stray organic matter on his skin, his hair, and his clothing blew away with a chill wind, reminding him of the very first time he used magic. In an instant, he felt strangely clean and dry. Relieved to no longer be covered in filth, but more annoyed at the reminder of his previous state, as it wasn’t even like he’d been conscious when it happened.

  “A marvellous spell, Jas. Captain Craig of House Cattif, C-rank Red Mage, at your service.” A cockney-sounding voice came from a fresh-faced man who looked no older than Ori’s twenty-three years of age. He held himself loose and seemed approachable, with eyes that smiled in pending exhilaration.

  “Sergeant Baker of Cudanow, or just call me Baker. NCO. C-rank Breath Knight. I’ll be your babysitter. I would say to keep your nappy dry as my services begin and end at keeping your bottom alive as opposed to clean, though we’re well past that, it seems.” A thick bush of a moustache hid the ghost of a grin his ribbing likely came with.

  Baker had been the first man to see to him after the Maker’s Arsenal. Ori simply nodded, while hoping the rest of them had got the jokes out of their system. He took note of the class. A non-mage? Breath Knight. Wasn’t that the paracausal energy of Lifeforce? He wondered how it worked, and how his class compared to the others.

  “Cordelia, though we are already acquainted,” the striking woman with long dark hair said. Even amongst the other armoured men, she was tall, standing at least an inch taller than Ori’s six foot.

  “She’ll be principally responsible for keeping your squishy mortal form intact. On a field where C- and B-rankers will be deployed, that’s no easy task,” Bartholomew added.

  “Jacobin, Sir Jacobin of House Gorran. B-rank of the Blue, at your service.” The final man, a middle-aged knight wearing a white tabard with gold and blue trim over his steel armour, stood with a posture that unnerved Ori. It was as if every muscle in his body was clenched and ready to spring; the cords in his neck were visibly tense. His eyes were dark, narrow beads upon a pale, bearded face.

  For a second, Ori wasn’t sure what they were waiting for before he realised that had been the last of them to introduce themselves.

  “Ori Suba, of London.” There was a pause as if they were waiting for something. “Ah, F-rank. Astral Adept,” Ori added, quickly deciding that electrical engineer and graduate likely wouldn’t translate, and that just replying mortal wouldn’t be enough to satisfy the situation at hand.

  “Astral Adept?” Bartholomew asked, puzzled. Ori had hoped it was a thing. He was wrong.

  “I believe it was divined as one of his titled accolades, though I have scarcely any knowledge as to its meaning,” Cordelia interjected.

  “It’s something to do with my affinities.”

  “I see,” Bartholomew replied in the way one does when they didn’t, and wanted you to elaborate. Ori refused. “Well then, let’s get to it. Ori of London, do you have any formal martial qualifications, military training, or front-line experience?”

  “No.”

  Lord Bart grunted in confirmation. “Will you follow orders? Without your summoner, you’ll be temporarily assigned the NCO rank of Specialist, officially outside of the chain of command. But as a military operation, with you as a mission-critical part to play, things would be much simpler if you follow our lead. With the chain of command being Baker to Cordelia to me, as far as ranking officers you should be concerned with. So I ask again: will you follow orders?”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Ori said.

  “Excellent. The edge of the enemy’s forces has been spotted just over a day away from the city walls. With a forced overnight march, we aim to engage the bulk of Eltitus’s host at dawn. Lady Jasmine’s Lesser Restoration should be enough to keep you hale and on your feet, but we have contingencies for if you’re unable to keep pace with our task force.

  “Things will get hairy as we engage whatever B-rank threats remain, but if you can keep your aura on throughout, we’ll have a decisive edge. Do you foresee any issues on that account?”

  “No. The aura doesn’t require much thought or effort.”

  “Good. And the forced march? If you’re unable to keep pace, Baker can carry you.”

  “Should be fine.” Ori shrugged.

  “Hmmm. Any questions?”

  Ori shook his head.

  “Good. Baker, get him kitted out. We set off before dusk.”