Knight Commander Belore Bart Receives the One-Month ReportLocation: The Grand Hall of the Knight Headquarters
The Grand Hall of the Knight Headquarters still stood, cracked but defiant. The vaulted ceiling, held aloft by ancient enchantments and iron buttresses, bore the strain of countless aftershocks. Weathered banners hung from fractured columns, their edges scorched and threadbare. The scent of oil, steel, and old dust lingered beneath the stone rafters—a breath of the past refusing to fade.
Knight Commander Belore Bart stood at the head of a long stone table, its surface blackened by both fire and time. His gauntleted hands rested on the edge as he listened, motionless, to the rhythmic sound of hammerfalls echoing from beyond the hall—knights and laborers reinforcing what remained of the Order's last bastion. This place had endured the first quake. It would endure the next.
"Captain Thorne," Belore said without turning. "Report."
Captain Thorne stepped forward with a sharp salute. Lean and sharp-eyed, he wore a dented helm and a cloak stained with ash and blood, though his posture remained crisp and unshaken.
"Repairs to the outer walls are seventy percent complete," he reported. "We've sealed the northern breach with quarried stone and dragonsteel from the old smith halls. Eastern watchtowers still need reinforcement—three squads are working on it now."
Belore nodded. "And the city?"
"Quiet, for now. Patrols continue across the southern sectors. We had two incidents—a looter ring near the lower districts and a collapsed mana-vault that drew scavengers. Both handled with minimal force. Civilian unrest is low. Our presence still carries weight."
"Let them know the Knights still watch," Belore said. "That law still breathes."
Thorne gave a single nod. "We've also had visitors—nobles, minor bloodlines, small houses. They're coming to headquarters now. Not to offer aid. For protection. Most have lost their retainers. Some bring gold or heirlooms. Most bring only names and expectations."
Belore's eyes narrowed. "Let me guess—none brought soldiers."
"Only a few," Thorne admitted. "Armed servants, nothing trained. But word's spreading. That the Knight Order still holds ground. That we're organized. They think we're the last structure left."
"They're not wrong," Belore muttered. He began pacing slowly, his boots ringing with weight across the stone floor. "And their manors?"
"Some are still untouched—abandoned, but intact. Others picked clean. There's talk among the squadrons… about structured raids. Not looting. Strategic acquisition. We could equip three garrisons if we accessed the right caches."
"And the alternative?"
"Negotiation," Thorne replied. "Send envoys. Offer protection in exchange for supplies—armories, food stores, artifacts. Some officers fear raiding will turn the rest of the noble lines against us."
Belore paused, frowning in thought. "The rest were already divided. This city split long before the earth cracked. Still…" He exhaled slowly. "We're not bandits. Not yet. Mark the manors with no flags, no retainers. Those, we take. Anything still guarded—we send a letter before a sword."
Thorne saluted again. "Understood, Commander."
"And the shelters?" Belore asked.
"Eight subterranean sectors completed," Thorne said. "Built under Passart's schematics. Garron Kest and the Builder's Guild have outpaced even their own estimates. They've reinforced the walls with alchemic steel and rune-bound stone. Five thousand civilians have already been relocated belowground. More are coming in by the hour."
"And Passart himself?"
Thorne's grim expression softened with faint admiration. "Relentless. Doesn't sleep. Walks like a man, works like a forge. He's built a world underground, Commander. A real one."
Belore's voice lowered with respect. "He's seventy, and he's seen more ruin than most men see glory. If anyone can carve salvation from stone and fire—it's him."
Thorne added, "Layla Ackerman's gene-crops are holding. The first harvest has already fed three sectors. Mana-light fruits, root vines, waterbind ferns… odd stuff. Grows fast. Feeds well."
"Good," Belore said, placing a gauntlet on the map splayed before them. "We need strength, not taste. The sky will fall further before it clears. We hold this place not as relics—but as a message. The old order may die. The Knights do not."
A moment passed. Then Thorne asked, "What about the nobles asking for titles to be honored? Some want their ranks restored. A few even requested command."
Belore's response was immediate and cold. "Tell them their names are ash. The only crown down here is forged in duty. If they want safety, they serve it. If they want privilege—let them walk into the ash and see how much it obeys."
Thorne's grim smile returned. "I'll see it done."
The Commander turned back to the map, where glowing ink traced the creeping spread of ash across the continent. His voice came low but steady, the oath of a soldier standing on the edge of the world.
"We are the last sword drawn. We do not fall back. We do not fracture. This city may break… but we do not bend."