“Power and Principality: Together, these kindred orders are responsible for directing the wingless knights out on the warfront. Whether one chooses to don heavy armor and weapons of great size, or to dance through the battlefield with piercing spears and straight swords, all who yet seek glory shall find it here.

“Indeed, these venerable halls have birthed a number of Thrones and Seraph alike, and as time passed, a rivalry began to develop—one which has persisted to this day. It is no surprise, for the twin orders are stark opposites, bickering and fighting over which style is the superior. All in good fun, I assure you, but there are the occasional spats every now and then. Such is the passion of youth.

“However, this rivalry has grown in ferocity ever since the inauguration of the current Templars. It is a curious situation, for despite how dissimilar they are in personality, the leaders of Power and Principality are related by blood: half-brothers of a different father. And if there is anything history has made clear, it is that no greater feud exists than that between siblings.”

- Chancellor Gadreel

———

The Knight

“Mm. My, the castle hasn’t changed one bit, don’t you think Cain? It is quite comforting to be back home.”

“Conduct yourself, Abel. I do not want your loose tongue to stain these sacred halls, especially before an audience with his majesty.”

Two of the knights walk forward, and their appearance is revealed under the gleaming skylight. The one speaking in harsh tone is a man plated head to toe in wieldy cuirass, with streaks of deep red and orange splashed throughout, while the face is masked by a sharp great helm. Every surface of his armor exudes a jagged, crag-like spirit, and so it contrasts strikingly with the other man by his side. This one has a much more elegant presence, and it is shown clear through his slender frame and form-fitting breastplate. It curves and glides around his figure in cool streams of blue, an almost whimsical pattern, until it reaches the helm where a simple design is bared: an adjustable visor, a keen peak, and a smooth surface.

Their weapons likewise suit their image, for the bulky one wields a giant war hammer while the other has a pointed lance. They do not resemble each other at all, and yet there appears to be a slight bond between the two. A begrudging one, filled with annoyance and minor jests, but it is a bond nonetheless.

They walk up to the round table, and then they descend onto their knees before Ascalon, one foot stamping over the other in a methodical, well-practiced step. Cain speaks first, an articulate, “Templar Cain Power formally greets his majesty.” Then, a softer voice: “Templar Abel Principality, at your service my liege.” They remain with bodies poised until Ascalon finally bids them relief.

“Cain, Abel, you may rise,” he says with a raise of his hand. “I thank you for answering my summons with such haste. Do forgive the suddenness of this matter, but time is of the essence, and we must hurry whilst this period of grace still lasts.”

“Perish the thought, my lord!” Cain exclaims. “We shall always adhere to your beck and call. As the one who claims the Highest Seat, your command is our piety. Our divine sacrament. Let us - the unworthy - fulfill your will, for that is our life’s purpose.”

The Knight is almost impressed with how utterly zealous the Power Templar is, and it is also impressed with how Ascalon is able to keep such a stone-cold demeanor before his endless flattering. The King hides it well, but it can notice his discomfort—how he shrinks back into his throne and awkwardly squirms in place.

I wonder, does this reverence stem from their distant relation? While Ascalon does bear the lineage of Power, he has never shown himself to be particularly fond of the name. Though, I suppose his feelings must come second to his duty as King, and the Powers are not one he can so easily ignore. They must be elated to have one of their blood be enthroned, even if it is a blood they themselves have discarded. It is a wonder Ascalon can subdue such averse feelings.

There is someone, however, who is very blatant with their disgust, and that person is Surasha who’s reaction is akin to that of one staring at a bug. She physically recoils back with a groan and lowers her head as if attempting to transport herself somewhere far, far away from the current moment. Cain takes notice of her, but if he has any offense, then he veils it well for the man greets her with the same warmth.

“And I must say, it is a pleasure to see you again, sister,” he says with a polite nod.

“Sister…?” she mutters darkly. “That’s… a nice thought, Cain. It’s, um, good to see you too.”

“Ah, I see your speech still retains the odd mumbling. Do come to me if you require a new tutor; your current one appears to be quite subpar.”

She grits her teeth. “Sure. Yeah, I’ll do that. Later, that is.”

Surasha is doing everything in her power to remain courteous, but her patience is waning, and she appears to be seconds away from descending into a shriek. Fortunately, Abel who has remained quiet thus far deigns to speak and break the tense air.

“Now, now, brother, you’ve had your turn,” he says with a friendly pat on his shoulder. “Come, let us greet our sister-in-arms. It is wonderful to see you in good health, Lorelai. We were all in despair when we heard of your disappearance, but the Stars are merciful. Indeed, for us to meet once more is nothing short of a miracle, and know that Cain and I shall do everything we can to help regain your memories.”

“Hehe, thank you, Abel,” the Knight replies. “It comforts me to be in the care of friends, but please: Do take a seat. You have traveled far; it would be discourteous of us to keep you standing.”

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“Oh, of course!” Cain interjects, subtly pushing his brother to the side. “By my word, your radiance is as benevolent as ever, my lady. Thank you for your kind consideration.”

An eager one, that. Yet, what is most curious is his voice devoid of any deceit or trickery. He is a natural-born fanatic. Useful, I suppose, but I do hope the other Powers are not so fervent.

The two eventually take their seats at opposite ends of the round table, and a new knight steps forth to greet the King. Only, the title of knight is not quite accurate, for the stranger dons an appearance closer to that of an Astrologian: they bare a long, flowing cloak of dark purple that shrouds the entirety of their body, and what would normally serve as the helm is instead replaced by a white clay mask. Not a single arm or leg is visible, and as they move their body remains perfectly still—as if gliding.

“Soloman Sovereignty, you have arrived,” Ascalon says, to which he receives not a single word in response. The figure only stays there frozen in a half-bow. “Quiet as ever, I see. But do not let me keep you. Take a seat, sir, and we shall begin momentarily.”

The only acknowledgement from the man - or at least, I assume is a man according to Ascalon’s ‘sir’ - is a single nod before he wordlessly drifts to the chair next to Dismas. Though their exchange is silent, the two appear to be friendly in some manner: at least, that is what the Knight can glean. It is rather difficult to assess one’s character without seeing their expressions or bodily movements; fortunately, his muted demeanor is betrayed by the expressive buzzing of Creation around him. The divinity is much more vivid than usual, communicative too, almost as if reflecting the Sovereignty’s current mood. And that mood is elation at reuniting with fellow comrades.

Six have gathered. Only one is left—the one with the unsettling chill.

They approach now: steps deliberate. Slow. Echoing. And as the final Templar makes their presence known, the shadows pull back to reveal… the figure of a young boy.

“Haha, it seems that I’m last. Stars, I’m a bit embarrassed. Really, I… I had this fun little speech planned, you know. For when I’d see everyone again. Oh, I was so excited. It would have been a wonderful, touching moment, but how strange. I seem to have forgotten my words. Dear me, my head’s gone and emptied itself. Isn’t that just a laugh?”

The Knight’s first thought is that the Templar is much smaller than it thought they would be. Even Surasha, who is of average height amongst the common folk, is shorter than the others, and yet the man before it barely reaches up to her shoulders. It is not just his height either, for his appearance is almost indistinguishable from that of a young child: glossy skin devoid of blemishes, plump cheeks one could easily squeeze, and an innocent, aloof face brimming with purity.

“Ah, but you know what I can do? Introduce myself! Yes, that is easy enough. A simple, classic conversation starter, wouldn’t you agree? Oh, I know you do! Anyways, I am Joshua Yahweh, Templar of the Order of the High Seraph. Pleased to make your acquaintance again, my dear friend Lorelai. Wait, am I still your friend? I am, aren’t I? But I suppose you have forgotten me… ah well, we can always start again. I think it will be quite simple. After all, a bond born on the battlefield cannot be so easily broken. The soul remembers where the mind fails, I say. It always does.”

The boy - no, man - is the sole Templar thus far to have revealed their face, and in doing so his features are displayed quite clearly—how he is different from the people of Polus. Instead of a skin-tone of red-blushed white or subtle tan, his is a darker complexion: bronze with little hints of brown and gold, like the desert sand sparkling under the sun’s scorching ray. His short black hair is also a rarity, alongside eyes of rich silky brown, but despite how blatantly he stands out among the others, Joshua flaunts his appearance without a care. At first glance, that is.

Something about the man unsettles the Knight. Despite his innocuous nature, it cannot rid this eerie chill stirring in its chest. It warns it to look closer, to see through his friendly facade, and as he continues to ramble on, the source of the discomfort is finally discovered.

His eyes. They do not shine. He stretches his lips out into a wide grin, and yet his eyes do not smile. His voice conveys an affectionate, kind tone, and yet there is a deep emptiness nestled within. Hollow and unfeeling. It is as if he is but a mere creature pretending to be human, pretending to know emotion, and so it mimics the logical inflection best suited for the mood. But a fake is a fake, no matter how hard one tries. And that is what Joshua is: a lie, pretending to be something it is not.

“Lorelai? Is something the matter?” his youthful voice suddenly inquires, and the Knight is startled, for it does not believe to have shown any indication of its hesitance. “Is it me? Am I meandering too much? Oh, I’m just a bore, aren’t I? I really did not mean to waste so much time, but there are just moments when you need to speak on and on and on, you know? It feels good to let your thoughts out. You should try it sometime, but that’s just me. I can stop if you’d like.”

“… Forgive me, Joshua,” it replies carefully. “I appreciate your eagerness, and believe me: I mean no offense. But it is a bit overwhelming to be barraged with such quick conversation, especially since - for the current me - this is our first time meeting. I would love to reconnect with you at a later date, but for now, we should focus on the task at hand.”

He freezes at first, as if the Knight has just slighted his very existence, but then he nods. It looks like an understanding nod, or so it hopes, and he soon begins to make his way towards the last seat.

But before he can sit down, he cocks his head to the side and then stares straight into the Knight’s eyes. “Come to think of it… has your voice changed?”

“What?”

“Your voice. It’s changed. Or at least, I think it has. I remember it being deeper. That’s strange, isn’t it? I like to believe I have a good memory, so why is it different? Can you tell me?”

The Knight is stunned. It has not accounted for this. Does my beguilement not affect him? No, even if that were true, I have tempered my voice to match closely with Lorelai’s by gauging the reactions of others. I spent many an hour in the company of Ascalon and the officials, and not once have they said a single comment.

“Is that so?” it says with feigned confusion. “I apologize, but I do not remember how I sounded before, so I can’t really provide an answer.”

Thankfully, the other Templars jump to its aid. “Really? I don’t think she sounds any different,” says Deborah. Surasha goes even further with, “Are you sure you're hearing things right? You should come give me a visit later because there’s obviously something wrong with your head.” And many other cries of affirmation.

Eventually, the noise becomes too loud, and Ascalon’s pressure surges through the room as he gestures for all to be silent. “Be calm, everyone. Personally, I hear no difference as well, but that does not mean Sir Joshua’s observation is any less valid. Perhaps Lorelai’s voice has changed subtly, or perhaps Joshua is confused after so long apart, but nonetheless this is not the right moment for this sort of talk. We have gathered for one purpose: to prepare for this war’s end. Please hold any further questions until after we are done, am I clear?”

“… Of course, your majesty,” Joshua says with a bow before settling into his seat. “Your word is my command.”

“Thank you for understanding.” The King lets forth a big, heaving sigh, and then he faces the round table with a renewed sobriety. “Now then, let us start.”