Chapter 14: Revelations and Ranks
Asterion awoke to the smell of antiseptic herbs and the low, rhythmic sound of chanting.
He was in the fortress infirmary, a long, stone hall filled with cots. He tried to sit up and was surprised when his body obeyed instantly, with no pain. His ribs, which he knew had been shattered, felt whole and strong. There was no ache, no stiffness.
But he felt… hollowed out.
He reached inside himself, to his core. Where there had once been a dense, heavy, sloshing sea of liquid Faith, there was now only a dangerously shallow pool. His body, since reaching the liquid stage, passively absorbed ambient Faith, so it wasn't empty, but the vast majority of his condensed reserves were gone.
"Don't bother. The well is low."
Asterion's head snapped to the side. Elian was sitting on a wooden stool by the cot, not in armor, but in a simple linen training tunic. He looked perfectly fine, his usual pale self, perhaps a little thinner, but his eyes were clear and sharp.
"Elian…" Asterion's voice was a dry rasp. "You're… fine."
"I have been for thirteen days," Elian replied, his voice flat. "You've been asleep for two weeks."
The fragmented memories of the retreat slammed back into Asterion. "Two weeks? My injuries…"
"Your injuries were healed by a priest an hour after you arrived," Elian said, his eyes analytical, dissecting him. "A wandering knight found us near the gate, hauling back other Holy Knights. He said their priests were dead, but their bodies would 'fix themselves' given time. He brought us here. A Holy Knight recognized us as Kalean's, and we were given priority treatment."
Elian leaned forward, his voice dropping. "My ribs were healed. You were healed. But you didn't wake up. The priests said your body was fine, but your… core… was nearly dry. You didn't just use your Faith, Asterion. You spent it. All of it."
Asterion's 33-year-old mind put the pieces together. The Insight. The "cold state." The effortless, perfect compression of his Faith into a Singularity. He had, in that one desperate moment, awakened his spiritual attribute. The cost of that awakening, without proper reserves, had been a complete spiritual burnout, forcing his body into a two-week coma just to recover.
"You've been here," Asterion stated. It wasn't a question.
"I have," Elian said, looking at his own hands. "Someone had to make sure the priests didn't forget you."
In that simple, unadorned admission, Asterion felt the bond between them, already forged in trauma and rivalry, settle into something new. Something solid.
The door to the infirmary bay creaked open, and Kalean entered. He looked exhausted, the lines on his 173-year-old face carved deeper than Asterion had ever seen them, but he was a mountain of dark steel as always.
"You're awake," he rumbled.
"Sir." Asterion sat up fully, the movement clean. "I… I apologize. My failure on the flank… it cost you…" He looked at Kalean's left arm, the one that had been sheared from his body.
Kalean simply unstrapped the vambrace on his left arm and tossed it onto the cot. He rolled up his sleeve. The arm beneath was not pale, not new. It was the same scarred, battle-hardened arm as his right. There was no mark, no newness, no sign of the catastrophic injury.
Asterion stared. "But… it was gone."
"It was," Kalean grunted. He flexed the hand. "A Great Knight's body can regenerate anything, given time. My Faith would have regrown it on its own, but it would have taken months—months I don't have. A priest's intervention just… accelerated the process. Sealed the wound, fueled the regrowth. Finished in an hour." He shrugged, a movement that rippled his armor. "This is not the first time, Asterion. You don't live to 173 without taking a few hits. Do not apologize for my arm."
He sat down, the stool groaning under his weight. "That was a long one. The horde was… persistent. Stronger than the last Wave. We were on that wall for 19 hours straight."
"Sir," Asterion said, his mind clearing, "the battle was too close. The old Great Knight… the woman… where was the rest of our legion? Why were there so few High Priests? The Arch Priest was gone. We were left exposed."
Kalean's face darkened. "You are no longer children," he said, his voice grim. "You deserve the truth. Fortitude's End was not a full legion. We are a scouting force. The main leadership was gone."
He leaned forward. "Three weeks before the Wave, our long-range scouting patrols—the ones meant to clear the path for the exploration—made a discovery. They didn't just find a nest. They found the source."
Elian, silent until now, went rigid. "A Great One?"
Kalean's head snapped to him, his eyes sharp. "No. Not one of the Great Ones," he said, his voice a low growl. "If they had stumbled on a Great One, they'd be corrupted dust. Their minds would have exploded trying to comprehend what they saw. Don't be a fool."
Elian did not flinch, but he accepted the correction.
"They found an Ascendant," Kalean continued, his voice grim. "It was 'rooting' itself. Attempting to become a hivemind, which would have eventually consumed the continent. The 'Wave' we fought was just a reflex, its immune system flaring up. The Arch Priest, four of our five High Priests, and almost every Great Knight on this coast… they launched a full, desperate assault on the Ascendant itself."
The revelation was staggering. Their 19-hour life-and-death struggle, the loss of knights, Kalean's arm, Elian's brush with death… it was a footnote. A sideshow.
"They returned two days ago," Kalean said. His voice was heavy, the grim pride from before now overshadowed by loss. "They succeeded. The Ascendant is dead. But the cost was… high. We lost six Great Knights and one High Priest."
He stood, his shadow falling over them. "They paid that price to buy us time. Decades, perhaps. Which is why you must recover. Your fight is not over."
The next eleven months were a grueling return to the forge.
Asterion's body was healed, but his mind was the true focus. His Curse, his Perfect Memory, had recorded the feeling of that Singularity, the "absolute zero" of his Inhuman Insight.
He no longer fought his memories. He no longer used his rage as a hammer.
He sat in meditation, and when the images came—Mishel's smile, his parents' blood, the farm in flames—he used them as an anchor. He let the storm of his past rage around him, and he practiced being the stillness at its center.
It was the hardest thing he had ever done. But his memory was a perfect teacher. Slowly, agonizingly, he learned to will the cold state into existence.
And his Faith, at last, began to change. The liquid in his core grew thicker, heavier, denser. He had broken his barrier. He was on the path. Elian, ever the prodigy, was pacing him.
Finally, a week after their fifteenth birthday, Kalean summoned them.
"You have recovered. You have mastered the 'cold'," he said, his scarred face showing something that might have been approval. "You are no longer squires. It is time."
They were brought to the fortress's high chapel. It was not the grand, sunlit hall of the Aegis Sanctum, but a grim, battle-scarred vault of black stone, smelling of cold incense and ozone. The only light came from a single, massive brazier burning with a white, heatless flame.
The High Priest who had survived the Ascendant assault stood before them. He looked gaunt, his eyes holding the terrifying, hollow stillness of a man who had stared into the void and barely returned.
He stared at the two 15-year-old boys, his gaze lingering on them for a full minute, as if measuring their souls.
"Squire Asterion. Squire Elian," the High Priest finally intoned, his voice a dry rasp that echoed in the cold hall. "You were squires of a Great Knight, tasked with guarding a flank In the defense of Fortitude's End. You held that flank against overwhelming odds. You faced Tainted far beyond your station. You," his eyes settled on Asterion, "awakened your attribute in the crucible. You," his gaze shifted to Elian, "were struck down in service to your brother-in-arms, and returned."
He stepped forward, his robes rustling. "The Aegis Sanctum sends children to be forged. The Grieving Coast returns warriors."
He raised his hand, not In blessing, but in declaration.
"By the authority of the Holy Church and the power vested in me as High Priest of the Forge, I recognize your deeds. The rituals are for peacetime. This is a war. Your rank has been earned not in a bath, but in blood and ichor. In recognition of valor, sacrifice, and strength demonstrated in the face of the Wave… I name you Holy Knights of the Shield."
There was no applause. Only the crackle of the white flame. Asterion's 33-year-old mind noted the profound weight of the moment. This was not a gift. It was a formal acknowledgment of what they had already become. It was a battlefield promotion, the heaviest kind.
Elian simply inclined his head, accepting the title as a simple, logical fact.
They stood before Kalean, clad in new, unadorned, soot-grey plate armor, identical to the legion's.
"You have your rank," Kalean said, handing each of them a sealed scroll. "Now, you have your first posting."
Asterion broke the wax. He read the orders, his 33-year-old mind processing the familiar, formal script.
"This is…"
"A journey," Kalean finished. "You are the greatest talents this coast has produced. But you are unrefined. You need more than the battlefield. You need the world. Your Holy Bath, your true anointing, awaits you where your journey began."
He looked at the two 15-year-old boys who were, by every measure, veteran killers and masters of Faith.
"You are to return to the Aegis Sanctum."
I have asked for some extra time for you both so both of you could explore around a little.