The campfires dotted the night like scattered stars, their faint glow illuminating the weary faces of soldiers. Smoke rose in thin tendrils, mingling with the crisp night air as murmurs spread among the gathered troops. Elian Ashrin sat at the edge of the largest fire, his dark cloak pulled tightly around him against the chill. The battlefield had fallen quiet, yet in the silence, another war brewed—one of faith and desperation.

Across the camp, a small group of soldiers knelt in a tight circle. Their hands clasped in unison, heads bowed, and voices low, they recited prayers to the almighty Sudo. The cadence of their words was steady, almost hypnotic, rising and falling like the tide. Nearby, a few more joined them, drawn to the display of piety as if clinging to a lifeline in the chaos of war.

Elian’s sharp eyes scanned the gathering, his mind uneasy. The presence of Sudoism had grown more visible over the past weeks, spreading through the camp like wildfire. It was hardly surprising; fear had a way of driving men to faith. Yet to Elian, it felt like a shift in the air, a reminder of the fracture within Parales itself.

“They’re praying for the war to end,” Rhyder—one of Elian’s trusted lieutenants—said as he approached. His voice carried a mixture of admiration and skepticism. “For deliverance from Lord Sudo, they say. Some of the eastern men even claim the Saint himself has blessed our cause.”

Elian’s lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Croem Seiver? The Saint of Sudoism?” He shook his head. “If he’s blessed anything, it’s his own power.”

Rhyder chuckled, but his gaze lingered on the growing congregation. “Still, it’s quite a thing to see. Back in Ambar, my parents kept a shrine to Sudo. Father called him the all-knowing light, the guide of the faithful. But out west?” He shrugged. “Faith dries up like the rivers here.”

Elian leaned back, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. “Out west, we trust the steel in our hands more than gods in the heavens. But faith has its uses. Let them find hope where they can. It’ll keep them steady for the next battle.”

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Rhyder gave a curt nod and walked away, leaving Elian alone with his thoughts.

The soldiers’ voices grew louder as the prayer reached its peak. They invoked the name of Sudo with reverence, their words painting him as both a protector and a judge. Elian had heard the stories many times before. Sudo, the almighty god worshipped by the kingdoms of the east—Simbar, Ralan, Ambar, and Jorhun. In those lands, his name was spoken with awe, his teachings etched into the hearts of his followers. Sudoism had flourished there, its influence weaving through their cultures and politics like an unbreakable thread.

Every 500 years, the faithful would elect a Saint to serve as Sudo’s earthly representative, a beacon of divine will in a world that seemed to stray further from it with each passing year. The current Saint, Croem Seiver III, was a figure of almost mythical proportions. A Brightblood born with eyes as white as snow and hair that gleamed like sunlight, his presence commanded respect even among those who doubted the gods. Stories of his wisdom and charisma traveled far beyond the eastern kingdoms, reaching even the westernmost fringes of Parales.

Yet, here in the west, Sudo’s light was dimmer. The further one traveled from the old Sudo kingdoms, the less sway the faith seemed to hold. Here, men prayed less often, and when they did, it was more out of fear than devotion. Elian had seen it before: desperate pleas to an unseen god when swords failed and death loomed.

He rose to his feet, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The prayer circle had swelled to nearly two dozen soldiers, their voices now harmonized in haunting unison. Elian couldn’t help but feel the weight of their faith pressing down on him. They sought salvation in Sudo, but would a god answer the cries of men soaked in blood?

“Captain,” a voice called from the shadows. A young scout approached, his face pale and his breath heavy from running. “A message from the front. There’s been movement near the eastern ridge. The Brightblood commander wants your presence.”

Elian nodded, the scout’s words pulling him from his reverie. “Ready my horse. I’ll be there shortly.”

As the scout departed, Elian cast one last glance at the prayer circle. The soldiers’ voices carried through the camp, their faith unwavering. He wondered if Sudo’s ears truly heard them—if the god they worshipped had any power to stop what was coming. War had a way of silencing even the loudest prayers.

Turning away, he strode toward the command tent, his mind already shifting to the battle ahead. Whatever gods the east or west worshipped, Elian knew one truth: on the battlefield, it was men, not gods, who decided the fate of Parales.