“There is one truth that all scholars of Cosmos herald as certain: Creation is alive. Though we may not see its form, the divinity is always with us. It reacts to our impulses: feels joy when one is happy and sorrow when one is sad.

“Emotions are what spur its growth, but there are moments when it simply becomes too much. Despair, trauma, rage: It cannot bear to witness such hopelessness, it deteriorates into a frenzied, twisted mess, and eventually… it corrupts the invoker, filling them with strength at the cost of their free will. The subsequent soul is no longer of sane mind—only a crude mass of instinct and hostility.”

- Arch Magus Faust, Ruler of the Augurium Thaumaturgy

———

Ascalon

Ascalon can only stare in horror as Sarathiel transforms into a colossal monstrosity—a hideous, chaotic mass of bramble that resembles neither man nor beast nor even machine. His limbs stretch as if being pulled apart, extending to the far ends of the valley until his arms are the size of pillars and his legs rise up past the fortress walls. His body extends impossibly large, spikes of steel all building upon each other until a cluttered thicket of metal consumes his chest. And his battle-axe of crimson blade fuses with the mangled stump of what once was his hand, enlarging even further until its shadow submerges the Polus army in an inescapable shade. There he grows, head jutting past the clouds, and all the while his nightmarish metamorphosis is accompanied by a terrible sound of ripping meat and crunching bone. He towers over the Magnus Murus. He roars, and the earth quakes in response.

Any resemblance of humanity has far vanished, replaced by a bumbling mimicry that shakes and spasms as if struggling to understand its new form. Even his voice has changed. It garbles an incoherent stream of nonsense, yet Ascalon can feel clearly the sorrow laden in the thing’s wail. He can feel the anguish, the hatred overflowing in its silver tears, and a fervent wish to let it all go. To be released of its burdens and its never-ending quest for penance.

He realizes it now, this creature’s nature: It is the true form of Sarathiel. Everything that has held him back, the few brittle attachments that have chained him to this world… all of it has been severed, leaving only a husk of his former self to remain.

“No,” Surasha whispers, covering her mouth with a trembling hand. “What is that thing? That—that can’t possibly be Sarathiel. That monster can’t possibly be…”

Abel clenches his fist and takes a hesitant step back. He is utterly petrified, as are every one of the knights behind him. They are all stricken with doubt, unmoving, for the thing before them is no instrument of Caelum; it is not an enemy they can so easily admonish as evil. No, it is a former fellow: a victim, and that fact will not change no matter how monstrous Sarathiel may seem.

“I do not wish to believe it myself, but there is no denying the sight before us,” Abel says after recovering from his bewilderment. “Yet, for Sir Sarathiel to be reduced to such a state… I doubt he can even recognize us.”

The most surprising reaction is of Cain’s, and while Ascalon has expected him to react with his usual vehement, the Templar is instead speechless. He stares at Sarathiel with both awe and terror.

And the King cannot fault him, for the titan’s appearance is of exactly that: a titan. A being told of only in legend as a natural disaster - a living, breathing force of nature - whose very existence has brought ruin to countless nations. With a single stomp, they turn rivers into canyons. With a ravenous maw, they devour the lives of thousands.

That very being faces them now, and it charges at the Polus army.

Rumble upon rumble, the wind screeches as every movement of the monstrous thing brings forth devastation—unleashes a deafening maelstrom that drowns all in a thunder, a boom, a furious crash of earth and soil exploding all at once.

“Retreat!” Ascalon bellows amidst the noise, and the stupor paralyzing the knights quickly replaces with a frantic desperation as they turn around and sprint with all their might back towards the marsh. Tens of thousands of bodies: all running in unison, all overcome with an impending sense of doom, and yet the sound of their stampede fails to muffle Sarathiel’s uproar. The titan rapidly approaches with an onslaught of howls, and all that dare stand in its way are the King and his Templars.

“Templars, to me! Manifest your wings!” he commands, and despite their uncertainty, the others bring forth their wings from the world’s Creation and quickly leap into the air. Surasha’s span is of dripping poison; Cain’s is of molten crag; and Abel soars with currents of water. The only missing member is Dismas whose skills are currently hard at work assisting the army in their flee.

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The winged knights brace themselves to be barraged by the fortress’s armaments, yet strangely the defenses appear unmanned; from the ramparts to the gates, not a single soul among the living can be seen. But Ascalon does not have time to ruminate over Caelum's disappearance before the titan rushes his way like a great moving mountain.

The Templars and their lord hold firm, bodies rigid as they await the coming clash, when suddenly a pink hue glimmers from above. It starts as a soft light, and then it grows stronger - more vibrant - until Deborah’s Astral Arrow bursts into view and slams into the titan with a bang. In an instant, the thing unleashes a painful roar as the impact lifts it up into the air and sends its humongous body hurtling all the way towards the Magnus Murus—hurtling, until it collides straight into the wall. The foundation collapses, the metal crumbles, and so is a large opening left behind.

Finally, although unintended, the fortress has been breached.

But there is one obstacle left before they can hunt down Nokron. The titan rises from the rubble, and its wound quickly mends with a bubbling stream of silver. Deborah’s attack has only served to enrage it, and soon, it shall charge again.

“Ascalon,” Lorelai voice calls to him. “Forgive my haste, but considering the circumstance I thought it urgent to bid Deborah’s aid.”

“A welcome decision,” Ascalon says, his thundering heart slowly coming to a rest. “I am in your debt once again.”

“Let us give thanks after the battle is done. First, we must stop Sarathiel from rampaging any further.”

“What of his clarity? Surely there must be a remnant of his former self still within?”

Even before she can reply, Ascalon knows what the answer shall be. “I’m sorry, Ascalon. The connection has returned, but Sarathiel no longer responds to my pleas. He is gone, and so is any sight of Nokron. I can only assume he is hiding within the fortress whilst waiting for our demise by Sarathiel’s hand.”

So it is as Ascalon fears. If the Polus army is to advance, then there is only one path ahead, and that is through the King’s former friend.

And yet, he cannot bear to tread it. There must be another option.

“Is there truly no way to regain his sanity?” he asks. And surprisingly, Lorelai’s response is more hopeful than he has imagined.

“… One, possibly,” she says. “Whilst enveloped in the miasma, there were times where I stabbed myself out of desperation, and the pain would help weaken the corrupting influence. Perhaps inflicting Sarathiel with enough shock will yield a similar effect and return his senses.”

“Lorelai…”

“It is in the past, Ascalon. I did what had to be done, and so will you. However, I will be blunt: If at any moment your life is in peril, then be prepared for the worst. You must live on even if it means cutting him down.”

Lorelai’s words are cold, but Ascalon knows they come from a place of worry. It is a sober reminder of his responsibility and the lives under his care. Still, Ascalon cannot help but be childish in times like these; the mere thought of killing his precious friend sends his soul in a rage. No, he wants to believe, no matter the trial, the impossibility, the voices begging for compromise, that there is always a better solution—a proper happy ending for all.

There will be no sacrifices.

There will be no martyrs.

No matter what, Ascalon will save Sarathiel.

“You do not have to worry about such things, Lorelai,” he says. “Because I will succeed.”

With hand over heart, Ascalon makes his declaration to the world: a promise and a truth. Never will I forsake another, or else let death seize me. For I shall no longer be a man worth respecting.

“… Then I wish you safe tidings,” Lorelai replies.

Their relay ends, and so is Ascalon left with a faith more blazing than ever.

“Surasha, Abel, Cain,” he begins, facing the others and extending his hand out in request. “This is my own selfish desire, one I shall not require you to accept. But—I know, deep within my being, that we can awaken Sarathiel from his despair. It shall be arduous, and danger will strike at any moment, but it would soothe me greatly to have your support. So I humbly ask: Will you follow me?”

The Templars turn their heads towards the other, and then they look at Ascalon with an answer already half-spoken.

Surasha is the first. “If I backed away from something like this, I wouldn’t be able to call myself a healer now, would I? Don’t worry about harming the big oaf: I’ll fix him right up even if he’s turned into a sack of meat.”

Abel is the second. “It would be my honor to assist a comrade in their time of need. I am not fearful, for I know the Stars shall hearken to our cause.”

And finally, Cain is the last. “Sir Sarathiel still has much to answer for. I will not allow him to escape his troubles so easily; no, that is the coward’s way.”

The King accepts his knights’ resolve, and he smiles. For it truly is a blessing to be in the company of such stalwart companions.

“Thank you everyone,” he says, drawing the Mattatron and spreading his wings wide. “Together as one, then. We begin!”