“Years ago, when Sarathiel was still Templar of the Powers, he was sent to the desert region under orders to intercept the then acting Caelum Commander: Rosengarten Velcroz. We had but only two Thrones at the time—Lorelai and Annalay, both of whom were already occupied with the Grand General’s advancement. And though it was a most perilous mission, Sarathiel was young and bold. He brought alongside him a great squadron of knights - including the Dominion’s Templar, Belladonna - and he marched triumphantly into battle, pledging to return a victorious man.

“And return he did, only… as the sole survivor. The Commander was dead, that we know for certain, but of what transpired on that day Sarathiel refuses to speak. His demeanor has since been enveloped in a dark shadow, haunted by memories he spurns absolutely. Even when the families of the bereaved demanded for answers, even when his fellow knights began to abhor him, Sarathiel remained silent.

“Despite so many being lost to the sands, Sarathiel’s accomplishment of slaying Velcroz the Terrible earned him grace as the Unbending Throne of Steel. A most unfortunate name, I must admit: It was if the elders were mocking his obstinance. ‘Unbending’… both in might, and in regret.”

- Chancellor Gadreel

———

The Knight

“Are you nervous?” a sad Dariel asks. The young officer waits right in the midst of the Knight’s room, and in his hands is the suit of armor lovingly crafted for Lorelai. He helps with fitting the plate on its body, slowly polishing the metal, and he brings the helm up to its face—gracing it with a conflicted smile before finishing his last act as aide.

For today is the day: the day when Polus departs for the Caelum domain.

“I am,” it replies, arming itself and taking one final glance at the space it has called home these past few weeks. “As I’m sure are the others. No one is ever truly fearless Dariel, but it is good to be anxious, for within these moments can I truly reflect on why I fight. It emboldens my cause, thinking of those I wish to protect—like you. Like everyone else in this nation.”

“Heh, spoken like a true hero.” Dariel takes a step back and looks at it in its entirety. He appears a bit dejected, and a faint glimmer in his eyes begs the Knight not to leave, but he knows such desires are selfish. Still, the heart has always been a fickle thing—one that cannot be controlled. “Can I really not go with you?”

“No, it is too dangerous for a civil officer.”

“I know, I know, but… it’s hard knowing I’ll be sitting back doing nothing. I feel so useless, in a way.”

“Oh, Dariel…” the Knight ruffles his hair and brings the gloomy officer in for a big hug. “We all have our roles to play, each one just as important as the other. And I can think of no other I trust more to look after the citizens’ needs whilst we are gone. Are you up for the task?”

The young man struggles in its grip at first, but eventually he breaks out into a wide grin. “Of course I am! Leave everyone to me and focus on ending this war for good. I’ll make sure to throw a grand party once you all return. ”

“Hehe, I shall look forward to it.”

The two separate, and the Knight parts for the door. It hesitates at the knob - hand lingering on the rugged wood - before turning back to glance at Dariel, to engrave their memories together, for it knows this shall be the last time his smile will be so innocent. It wouldn’t have mattered before, but the ageless being cannot bear to imagine it now: his face stricken with betrayal. Ascalon is not the only one who makes its heart falter anymore; it is slowly creating bonds. Bonds that will be severed. Bonds that will only pain it more upon its break.

So, before it does, the Knight wishes to remember his figure now—of a man bright with dreams and aspirations.

“… Goodbye, Dariel.”

He chuckles and bids it farewell with a little wave of his hand. “Goodbye, Lorelai. I—no, we will all be waiting.”

The Knight nods its head, and it finally leaves the room. Step by step, it marches through the unfamiliarly-silent halls, and it muses on the absence of both knight and official—how foreign it all seems to have such peace be prevalent. Not a soul is found on its short trek, and as the gates of the castle’s end finally come into view, it stops in place. And it closes its eyes, raising a finger to the child restlessly bouncing on its head.

“From now on, you must carefully listen to my words, Aegis,” it says to him, the little babe holding on with a nervous babble. “This war will reveal humanity at its most vile. There will be sights you are not yet ready to see, heartache you must not yet endure. So when that time comes, I want you to close your eyes just like how I am now. Do you understand?”

Aegis is scared by its words, for it can feel the Knight’s solemnity clear. But it is very, very serious. The child must not be shown death so soon, lest he be led onto the wrong path: to succumb before blood’s maddening aroma, or to shy away from taking the life of another.

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He gurgles an affirmative cry, but it can sense some hesitation stirring within his still tiny chest. Unfortunately, fate never waits for one to be ready. All one can do is confront it.

“Good. Do not worry, I will be right beside you.”

And with that, the Knight pushes the gates wide open, and a deafening boom of fanfare welcomes it to the outside.

There, surrounding it from all over, stand the entirety of Polus’s army: from every street and every corner, atop the grass and spilling out onto the cobblestone roads. There lie the knights—bodies poised and weapons pointed high: their armors gleaming whilst coalescing into a venerable sea of metal. Each of the seven Orders have gathered here - forces positioned off to the side - and they are represented by their respective Templar leading at the forefront. Familiar faces greet it, many more bow in reverence, but the Knight remains regal as it walks down the center promenade. None obstruct its path; it continues to march, to flaunt itself before the watchful masses, and there is only one person that awaits it at the very end.

The Knight stops, and it lifts its head.

“I am ready, Ascalon.”

The King nods - a rigid display, one done in formal manner before their audience - and he reaches out with an outstretched hand.

“Then let us go, together.”

It gently wraps its fingers around his, and the two rest side by side as a figure approaches them from the distance. It is Annalay, and she rolls her head back in displeasure as she trudges towards the duo with a surprisingly elegant step.

“I’m doing this whole stuffy procedure for you, Ascalon. I hope you know that,” she grumbles whilst still taking care to maintain her image. “Can’t believe I have to do this when I’m not even leaving with you all.”

“I appreciate the effort, truly.”

“Hah, don’t get too comfortable. Soon as you come back, I’m taking a well-deserved vacation. Maybe I’ll visit the Thaumaturgy… heard they have good food.”

But before she can speak further, another figure approaches them: this one unfamiliar to the Knight. But instead of respect as the others have displayed thus far, the new guest begets a different reaction—one of unease.

Is it their size, a gargantuan behemoth towering over even the likes of Annalay?

Is it their sharp, jagged appearance, helmet drab and armor composed of a chaotic assortment of rough ores?

Or is it their beastly demeanor, posture hunched and body oozing of a menacing aura? Of an uncontrollable brute ready to be unleashed?

It may be this all, but there is something different in the crowd’s gaze: a complicated feeling, one the Knight cannot make out, but it knows of one certainty. This person is the last member of the Thrones: Sarathiel, the Unbending Steel.

“Thank you for coming, Sarathiel,” Ascalon greets him. “I know it must be hard to return to the capital. Nevertheless, I am glad you are here—to see your appearance after so long brings me great joy.”

The man is hesitant to speak at first, but when he does, an unusually soft voice is uttered: quiet, almost meek in a way, as if speaking any louder will anger the other. Rather than of a vicious giant as his appearance suggests, Sarathiel reminds the Knight of a small animal. But unlike an animal, he has much more than claws; a great blood-red axe affixed to a silver pole juts out from behind his back, and it carries the malice of countless vengeful wisps in its crimson sheen.

“… It’s uncomfortable,” he says. “But necessary. If you want to end this war, then so be it. I will be your blade.”

“You are much more than that, Sarathiel. You’re my friend and a capable Throne; do not belittle yourself so.”

He doesn’t reply. Instead, Sarathiel hails the Knight with a sheepish bow. “Apologies for being so late to see you, Lorelai. When I heard the news, I didn’t know what to do. Of course I was happy to know you were alive, but to come and see you for myself is… well, I’d only ruin the mood. And it might be better for you to have forgotten me. I’ve always regretted telling—”

“Telling me what?” it asks.

“Nothing, forget I ever said that,” he quickly interjects.

His words only make the Knight more curious, but it is evident he refuses to speak any more about the matter.

“Okay, Sarathiel. I will not pry further,” it assures him. “But I will always be here if you need someone to talk to.”

“… Alright.”

The grizzly man still appears to be rather tense, but he lets out a sigh and shrugs off his gripes before moving to Annalay’s side. She lands a playful punch on his arm, her demeanor no different than before, and teases him with a sibling-like ire. Their relationship is much more natural; if only the Knight can know why he is so apprehensive towards it.

“Hoh, we are all finally united,” the King says with a slight flutter. “Then there is no longer any time to waste. Let us begin.”

Ascalon beholds the gathering: of the Thrones, the Templars, and all other knights congregated on this day, and then he raises the Mattatron up high—allowing its amber sparkle to fly up and wreathe the capital in a shower of light. The citizens poke their heads out of their homes: they stare at the twinking show; and they ready themselves, for this is a sign of a coming decree.

He takes a deep breath, and then the King bellows out for all to hear.

“Heed my words, sons and daughters of Polus! The time is now to end this conflict. No longer shall we wait with tortured breaths for our loved ones to return. No longer shall we live in fear of what tomorrow will bring. I declare to you, one and all: We shall march with the full might of our army. We shall bring peace to these lands for years ahead, and we shall slay the Grand General and end his reign of terror upon our people. My blade will be there - charging at the very front - and together, we will bring forth the ever-radiant dawn!”

The city erupts into a cacophony of cheers and applause. From the citizens to the knights, they all break out into a thunderous shout, echoing throughout the sky and drowning all those below with its victorious rally. They celebrate, they raise their first high, and they stamp their feet in a unified medley of song. Here and now, the nation is truly united.

Ascalon turns around and faces the emboldened visage of his kingdom. Not a single doubt is writ on his face; the King is more stunning than ever before.

“Warriors of Polus,” he roars. “Onwards, to Nox Caelum!”