Grendon pulled his cloak tighter against the evening chill, scowling as he trudged alongside Harker through the winding streets of Oryn-Vel. The city's skyline loomed ahead, a chaotic mix of grandeur and decay, the lights from its bustling districts casting long shadows over the older, forgotten parts.
"You ever stop to think about how many times we've been dragged into this mess?" Grendon muttered, rolling his shoulders. "We keep crawling back to Valcian like a couple of whipped dogs."
Harker, walking with his usual lazy stride, let out an exaggerated sigh. "And yet here you are, walking back in with me. So maybe don't complain, yeah?"
Grendon shot him a glare. "I could've had a decent life by now, if not for all this Syndicate business."
Harker snorted. "Oh, sure. A 'decent life.' Let me guess—owning a tavern by the docks, living honest? Please. You'd be dead in a week, either from boredom or because you pissed off the wrong drunk."
Grendon grumbled under his breath but didn't argue further. He knew Harker was right.
As they neared the entrance to Keep Valcian, their casual banter faded. The old keep loomed ahead, its ruined facade barely concealing the activity inside. The Syndicate was trying to rebuild, but the scars of its past failures were still evident—crumbling walls, broken fortifications, and, of course, the shattered remains of the meeting hall.
They passed through the arched gateway, nodding at the guards standing at attention. Once, the Syndicate had held power across half the city. Now, they operated from ruins, trying to claw their way back.
Inside the keep, the air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and old blood. They strode into the meeting chamber, where the long wooden table still lay in splinters from that night—the night Edmund Ardent had carved his way through the Syndicate and shattered its foundation. The destruction remained, a bitter reminder.
At the head of the ruined table, Luthias Varrel stood, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. He was dressed in his usual dark, impeccable attire, his sharp features giving nothing away. His silver hair was slicked back as always, as it seemed the silver fox of a man gave his appearance top priority. Beside him sat Ivara, his ever-watchful second-in-command, twirling a dagger between her fingers. Her luxurious golden hair was long and voluminous. And leaning against the wall with his arms folded, looking far too serious over the state of things, was Felix Cailen. The young man wore glasses and his dirty blonde hair was rugged, his face unshaven as a shadow of stubble coated his jaw.
"Took you two long enough," Felix remarked with a reserved and slightly anxious expression.
Grendon and Harker exchanged glances before stepping forward.
"Well," Harker drawled, "guess we're all here. What's next?"
Luthias Varrel exhaled slowly, his sharp gaze scanning the room before he finally spoke, his voice even yet carrying weight.
"We have fought through ruin. We have been hunted like rats. We have watched our power slip from our grasp. But we are still here." His fingers drummed against the arm of his chair. "Keep Valcian stands, and so does the Syndicate. We've clawed our way back from the brink before, and we'll do it again."
His eyes landed on each of them in turn—Grendon, Harker, Felix, Ivara. "But we can't do it alone. The city is changing. The Whispers grow bolder. The Crown's enforcers may yet turn their gaze south. And so, we must adapt. Which is why I've brought in... new blood."
He nodded toward the far door. At his signal, two figures stepped inside.
They moved like wraiths, clad in black armor lined with gleaming silver, each carrying a longsword sheathed at their hip. Their presence seemed to darken the chamber, as if the air itself recoiled from them. The armor bore no insignia, no crest—but Felix's sharp eyes caught the shape of the pommels of their blades, the faint etchings in the silver-lined plating. His breath hitched.
"Shit," Felix muttered, low enough for only those near him to hear. "Holy Knights."
Grendon stiffened. Even Harker, usually the most relaxed of them all, straightened his posture.
Holy Knights. Enforcers of the Royal Church, the divine arm of the aristocracy from the north. They were more than just warriors; they were executioners, inquisitors, and worse—fanatics who wielded the authority of both king and clergy. Their presence here, in Oryn-Vel, in Keep Valcian, was unheard of. Seeing one this far south, so far from the royal capital, was extremely rare.
Varrel let the tension hang before speaking again. "You recognize them, then. Good. Then you understand why they are valuable."
One of the knights, a tall figure, took a single step forward. His voice was smooth, deliberate. "We no longer serve the North. We have seen the truth behind the Crown, behind the Church. And so, we have come here."
Varrel gestured toward them. "Allow me to introduce Sir Alden and Lady Zefaria. Once Holy Knights, now allies of the Syndicate. Their skills, their knowledge of the North, and their blades are now ours to wield."
Ivara leaned back, tapping her dagger against the remains of the broken table, watching the knights with a sharp, calculating look. "And what," she drawled, "exactly made two of the Church's finest turn on their masters?"
Zefaria, the second knight, finally spoke. Her voice was quiet but carried steel. "Betrayal."
Felix exhaled, shaking his head slightly, still trying to process what this meant. "Well then," he muttered. "This just got a whole lot more interesting."
*
Sir Alden and Lady Zefaria stood silent for a moment, their blackened silver armor catching the flickering torchlight of Keep Valcian's ruined hall. Then, without hesitation, they reached up and removed their helmets.
Alden, the taller of the two, was a man of sharp angles—his cheekbones high, his jaw square, his silver-white hair cropped close to his scalp. His cold blue eyes swept the room with a practiced intensity, taking stock of those present as if assessing threats.
Beside him, Zefaria stood with an air of quiet confidence. Her raven-dark hair fell past her shoulders in a single, tight braid, and her golden eyes, almost feline in their sharpness, gleamed with something between caution and defiance. There was a faded scar tracing her temple, a remnant of an old battle, though she wore it like a badge of honor.
Varrel leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Go on, then. Tell them why you're here."
Alden inhaled, his expression unreadable. "We were once loyal servants of the Holy Church. Born into its service. Raised within its walls. Trained to be its sword and shield." His voice was steady, but there was a weight to it, a deep bitterness that lingered beneath the surface. "For years, we carried out our duties. We upheld their justice, their will. We believed in their cause."
Zefaria's fingers curled at her side, her gauntleted hand tightening. "Until we saw the truth."
Felix crossed his arms. "Which was?"
Alden's jaw tightened. "The Church does not serve the gods. It does not serve the people. It serves itself." He looked around the room, meeting each of their gazes. "They speak of purity, of justice, but behind closed doors, they scheme, they hoard power, and they silence those who question them. We were among the few chosen to enforce their rule beyond the North, to carry out their will in the outer territories. We thought we were delivering justice." He exhaled sharply. "Instead, we delivered massacres."
Zefaria spoke then, her voice quieter, but no less resolute. "Villages burned. Innocents slain. And when we questioned it—when we demanded answers—our own comrades turned on us."
Alden's hand hovered near the pommel of his blade. "We fought our way out of their grasp, but we are hunted. Branded as traitors. The moment we set foot beyond the northern border, we became exiles."
Ivara leaned back in her chair, tapping a dagger idly against the ruined meeting table. "So, let me get this straight—you two fled the North, turned your backs on the Holy Church, and now you want to throw in with us?" She tilted her head, her gaze assessing. "Why?"
Alden and Zefaria exchanged a glance before Alden answered. "Because we know what's coming."
Varrel's gaze sharpened. "Explain."
Zefaria crossed her arms. "The Church is preparing something. A war. Not just against the Syndicate, but against Oryn-Vel itself. Against the South. They believe this city is a den of heresy, a stain that must be purged. And they will come. Soon. Just before we were exiled and left for dead, we were important enough to catch a whiff of what the higher-ups were planning.
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Felix exhaled. "So not only are we threatened by the very city we once used to host our operations, but the very peak of power and prestige in the country is planning on wiping us out? If that's the case, we will need all the help we can afford."
Varrel nodded, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he turned back to Alden and Zefaria.
"Then it would seem our interests align."