Date: February 12, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
In the silence of the Central Node, broken only by the steady hum of the floating octahedron, the voice of the legion leader sounded like the crack of splitting ice. He stepped forward, and his black armor absorbed the light emanating from the Equilibrium bridges.
"I am Legate Valerius, commander of the Third Assault Wing of Alvost," the Herald said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, its pommel shaped like a clenched fist. "We did not pass through the mirrored halls to gaze upon your wounded faces. The Order of Order has long considered itself the judge of this world. You are everywhere—in our mines, on our trade routes, now here, trying to lay your heavy hand on Zanra's legacy."
Valerius surveyed those present. His inner power, based on the Art of Polarity Shift, made the air around him vibrate with excessive static tension.
"I propose a deal," the Legate looked directly at Baron Kaelen. "The Rakesh Dynasty and the legions of Alvost have much more in common than it might seem. We both value strength and the right to own. This Relic, or whatever is hidden under the dome, should not fall to the Order. Help me remove these 'judges' from the board, and we will split the spoils as equals."
Grak the Axe frowned, his hand tightening on his axe handle. The knights of the Seventh Detachment instinctively gathered behind their commander. Kaedan, leaning on Olaf, felt his Vessel respond to the threat with a sharp surge—the remnants of his Warrior power began to concentrate, despite his monstrous fatigue.
Baron Kaelen remained silent for several long seconds. He was assessing the odds. His group was exhausted by the Pyramid of Entropy, Grak was still strong, and Iskon and Kaedan, despite their wounds, looked dangerous. But an alliance with Alvost offered an undeniable numerical and power advantage.
"The Rakesh Dynasty knows how to recognize advantageous offers," Kaelen finally said, a cold, joyless smile appearing on his lips. "The Order of Order has indeed become too intrusive lately. Grak, nothing personal. Just business and purity of power."
At Kaelen's signal, fourteen Rakesh knights smoothly repositioned, linking up with the twelve Alvost legionaries. Two Heralds—Kaelen and Valerius—took positions on opposite sides of the platform, effectively surrounding the thirteen surviving Order knights in a tight ring.
Grak the Axe stepped into the center of the circle, his massive figure radiating such a density of power that the slabs beneath his feet began to slowly sink. "So, gold and black steel have made common cause," Grak boomed. "You are making a mistake. The Order is here not for gain, but to ensure this power does not tear the continent apart. But if you have chosen the path of betrayal... so be it. My axe has not yet dulled against your shields."
Kaedan surged forward as far as his wounds allowed, taking his place shoulder to shoulder with Iskon. Even on the verge of exhaustion, they were not going to give up. Iskon raised his battered shield, and the spike in its center glinted dully, reflecting the light of the Central Crystal.
"Eleven against twenty-six," Elwin whispered, his memory already calculating hundreds of scenarios for their demise. "And two Heralds against us."
"We are thirteen, Elwin," Liana corrected him, her needle-sword poised in a combat stance. "And we are the Seventh Detachment. We don't count enemies; we stop them."
Mirza and Arannis remained aside, watching the brewing slaughter. For them, this alliance was merely a temporary obstacle or an opportunity. The tension reached the point where the sound of a falling bolt could trigger catastrophe. The air smelled of ozone, crimson light, and pre-death resolve. The Heralds of Alvost and Rakesh began to slowly tighten the circle, and Kaedan felt the space around them compress, ready to explode with the first strike.