> EASTBOARDEN MOUNTAINS – SANDCREACH VALLEY
Solaris 57, 23 days since the rift opened:
The wind screamed across the frostbitten valley. Flags of war snapped violently against the sky – once white and gold, they were now stained a deep crimson.
Below them, men stood in formation at the mouth of a valley. Twenty knights strong, clad in once mirror-polished plate, now dirtied by the battlefield – their breaths misting in the thin mountain air. The unmistakable caw of crows rang in their ears – harsh and constant.
At their head stood Sir Cassian Soren, Knight Commander of the Eastboarden Vanguard. A mountain of a man – broad; with resolute eyes which smoldered like coal upon his storm-weathered face.
His armour was unusually unadorned for a knight of his status, no crest, no seal, no patterns, just plain iron. As his men liked to say, it reflected his 'no nonsense' attitude – efficacy over all else.
That is, save for his illustrious emerald cape. It swept behind him and stirred gently in the hush of dawn. The fabric was thick with age and rain – its weight both literal and symbolic, soaked in the storms of hundreds of battles, fastened to his collar by golden clasps – silent witnesses to forgotten honours long past.
"Brothers," Soren began, voice iron-clad and steady, "I will not offer you lies. We do not know what these things are. We do not know how many. But we do know two things…
One: These, 'Turned', have ravaged the Eastboarden Mountains – stealing, pillaging, murdering. Now they approach Milornia – our homeland. If we do not stop them here, they shall do the same to your mothers and fathers, your sisters and brothers, your wives and your children
And two: we know that they bleed – that is enough.
Let them come. Let them see what it means to stand against men who do not break."
Soren turned to the horizon. He could hear their barbaric war cries as the stampede turned into the mouth of the valley. They were coming.
He thought of laughter.
***
"Vargas, put that down, you look foolish. You are a brilliant knight, but a musician? Not so much." Soren declared. His voice held authoritative conviction but, in spite of appearances, he was thankful that Vargas' theatrics amused the rest of his men.
"Haha, apologies commander but I can't help it! This shawm just looks so delectable!" Vargas replied in a drunken haze whilst putting his arm around Soren.
"Are you claiming to be a sodomite then, Vargas?" Another knight perked up.
"No I'm not, Christopher, and you know that I have a wife." Vargas chuckled.
"Yes, well, I assume she would be displeased at seeing the sight of you sucking on a big wooden stick."
"You cheeky little bastard!" Vargas roared, stumbling to his feet as he lunged for Christopher, who, as calm and collected as always, simply moved to the side, causing Vargas to fall into the dirt.
Soren watched his men silently. Each one he had trained personally, each of whom he had a history with, spanning many quests and adventures together; despite having family in the capital — they were apathetic towards him — these were his brothers, his real family.
"C-Commander?" Another knight mumbled.
"Yes, Aldric?"
"I hope I'm not dampening your mood, but what is your impression on tomorrow's battle?" Aldric muttered. Despite his voice being barely over a whisper, the entire camp went silent.
"Well–"
Soren was speechless for the first time for the entire evening. He did not want to sully the mood, but also did not want to give his men a false sense of security.
"I can answer that!" Vargas spoke up. "We are going to wreak havoc upon them!"
The rest of the knights cheered in agreement.
"And if any issues arise, the commander's Steelthorn Lockdown must surely lay waste to these devils!" Vargas exclaimed, which was followed by further cries of concurrence.
Soren scanned the camp and gave an affirmative nod, however deep down, he was unsure. He glanced towards Aldric, and despite him also carrying a positive demeanor, Soren could tell that he was also not reassured.
Being the youngest of the knights, Soren had adopted a sort of fatherly role towards Aldric, passing on his years of experience and knowledge that no blade could teach. He had grown a certain fondness for him – Aldric was not like the other knights, brash and proud, he was more reserved, he was different.
Laughter faded with the stars, and by dawn, the snow ran red.
***
The battlefield stank of churned earth, and raw iron – not the kind from weapons. Crows still circled overhead, shrieking their anticipation. Soren cut down another 'Turned' with a swift arc of his blade – one motion, one breath. Around him, the valley was chaos.
He moved through the tide like a relentless wave. This is what he did. Command. Endure. Win.
Steel rang out from the ridgeline. His head turned left to glimpse Christopher, backpedaling beneath a flurry of javelins, shield arm sagging.
On the right, Vargas was already bleeding, dragging himself between bodies, refusing to let the right flank fall.
Soren kept moving. They weren't green recruits. They were knights. Trained. Tested. They could hold.
Then–
A scream tore through the battlefield — raw, choked, and full of panic.
"Commander!"
The voice was unmistakable.
Aldric.
Soren's chest tightened. He broke into a sprint, sword blazing. Each step crushed gravel, snapped bone.
"Move!" he roared, cutting down two 'Turned' in one fluid motion.
A 'Turned' sneered. "He's got this fancy ass cape – must be a boss."
Soren was surrounded.
Bastards!
Soren raised his sword. "I shall give you one last chance to leave with your lives. Kneel… or bleed."
They laughed and started closing in like a pack of wolves, grins carved into pale, corrupted faces.
A measured exhale.
Bleed it is then.
One lunged.
CLANG!
Blade met blade, a parry that became a pivot, a step, then steel sank into warm flesh – the first dropped without sound.
The others hesitated – a mistake.
Soren dashed.
A blur of emerald and iron, cape whipping in the wind. His blade sang through the air, each strike an elegant arc of death. Each motion honed, practiced a thousand times. Parry. Riposte. Strike. Again. No hesitation.
A war cry rang out – one of the 'Turned' charged from behind.
The wrong angle.
Soren shifted weight, ducked low, and drove his elbow backwards. The crack of bone. Then, a clean, backwards stab – his blade slicing through ribs.
Three down.
Now they rushed him all at once.
Incompetence.
Steel clashed in a frenzy, a brutal orchestra of violence. He moved like the storm – footwork grounded, swordwork divine. He struck low, kicked high, elbowed one to the dirt, and plunged his sword down into his skull with a crunch that echoed across the snow.
Six down.
The last one stepped back, trembling.
Soren levelled his blade.
"Yield."
The 'Turned' raised his sword.
Why are they so intent on dying?
He surged forward – one step, two – and the seventh fell like the rest.
Soren sighed, then ran towards the screams – leaving a wake of destruction and the smell of bloody petrichor lingering in the air.
Aldric was crumpled, breath shallow. Blood soaked the snow beneath him.
No… Aldric.
"Hey there, commander…"
Aldric had a sense of finality in his voice.
"Bastards! Did they just leave you here to die? Dammit I'll make them pay!"
"No commander. Just stay here. Please."
Soren reached out and gripped Aldric's gauntlet – the boy's fingers barely curled in return.
He didn't have to say anything. He didn't know if he could.
"I'm so glad you–"
Aldric coughed as blood gurgled in his throat.
"It's alright Aldric, don't speak anymore. I'm here."
"Commander, I'm so glad I got to know you…"
"No, no, no, keep your eyes open! You're a knight, damn it!"
"..."
"Aldric?"
"..."
Sir Cassian Soren, the epitome of stoicism and strength, let a tear run down his cheek.
Rest easy. I shall make them pay.
Soren rose slowly, one hand still on Aldric's chest.
The wind howled. The world narrowed.
Sir Cassian Soren planted his blade into the earth.
10…
"I'm going to say this once," he growled, voice low, like iron dragged through gravel.
9…
"None of you are going to leave this place alive."
8…
"What's this guy saying? Is he a boss? Let's rush him!"
7…
"Hell yeah, I'm getting that last strike bonus!"
6…
Soren was now surrounded by dozens of them.
His emerald cape lifted, caught in a rising gust – but it wasn't wind.
It was pressure.
5…
"Eat shit, old man!" Taunted one of the 'Turned' plunging his sword into Soren's side.
4…
"You're a stubborn one!" Exclaimed another, driving his sword into his thigh.
3…
"Fuck! How much health does this guy have? I can't tell!"
2…
"Just stab him again!"
1…
A blade plunged straight into his chest. His vision blurred.
But he didn't scream.
He smirked.
"Steelthorn Lockdown."
The ground split.
Metal vines tore upward from the earth like iron serpents, shrieking and writhing, wrapping around legs, torsos, necks. Screams rang out. Dozens were impaled in an instant, their bodies hoisted high like bloodied banners.
"Told… you," he mumbled.
When it was over, the plateau was silent again – littered with twisted bodies, crimson frost, and the echo of dying breaths.
Soren still stood… barely.
His body leaned against the sword he'd driven into the ground. His eyes glazed over, staring somewhere far past the blood and sky.
He dropped to his knees.
Death wasn't what he thought it'd be. A gentle, almost mechanical hum rang through his ears, and a warm fuzzy feeling at his core.
Then, a bright blue flash.