Chapter 6

The emperor walked slowly through the courtyard of the tower, observing the lines of soldiers as they practiced their drills. This was not a man to wander idly. In this moment he had eyes for only one thing, his men, and their imperfections. They wielded a variety weapons. There were units with swords and shields. Others with muskets. Groups of men marched by the emperor holding automatic rifles close to their chests. Each movement was precise, the lines of men moved as one. The drills were designed to prepare them for the different levels of order they might experience in the field. They needed to be ready for all conditions, all scenarios.

A hood covered the emperor's head as a brisk, cold wind blew in from the lake. The air carried a scent of the ocean with it, reminding the emperor of the sea beyond the harbor of the Boston. He silently judged the soldiers, taking note of their failures more than their successes. There was always room for improvement, and he made it his his job to ensure that his troops were the best they could be. It might seem a paltry thing for the emperor himself to concern himself with, but he had built the empire on the backs of perfect forces. And the sword of the Blood Prince.

In another corner of the courtyard, a group of young men practiced under the watchful eye of a priest dressed in flowing white robes. These men were training for The Choosing, a ceremony where the empire selected a new Sword. The Sword was a champion to serve as a symbol of strength and unity. The Sword was the heart of the team of Griidlords that called the city home. It had been far too long since the empire had had a good Sword, and the emperor was growing impatient.

The group moved with a fluidity that was almost unnatural – as if they were extensions of the priest himself. Their poses and actions seemed strange to the untrained eye, more akin to a dance than a martial exercise. There had been a time when the sons and daughters of noble houses came to The Choosing, each trained by their house, each bringing different strengths, different weaknesses. The emperor had done away with such madness long ago. Now the Choosing would select the best candidate, caring not for station of birth.

As he watched the training unfold before him, the emperor couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. Soon, a new Sword would rise.

The emperor continued walking, the cold Boston air brushing against his cheeks as he made his way back to the tower's entrance. He had much to consider before the choosing – and little time to do so.

The emperor knew that in order to maintain the strength and prestige of his empire, he needed to find a new Sword from within his own state – a proud Bostonian. Boston was the heart of the empire, Boston needed to show the world why it was to her the knee was bent. For too long the empire had struggled to defend its borders and acquire the orbs it needed to thrive. In the past, especially during the reign of the Blood Prince, the empire had been unstoppable, its vast armies amassing orbs and Griid-Crowns at a staggering rate. Now the vultures circled, inside the empire, and beyond its borders. New powers vied to replace her, new men vied to replace him.

Under the Blood Prince's rule, the Bostonian Empire had expanded far and wide. The surrounding states had either succumbed to its military might or bowed to its intimidating presence. Through war and diplomacy, with the pen and the sword, the empire had spread its influence. For centuries they won Orb upon Orb. The wealth of Flows and Ebbs allowed them to trade Order for control. At its zenith, the empire had stretched all the way to Carolina in the south and Chicago in the west, amassing dozens of Griidlords from conquered cities to serve the Emperor's every whim.

Yet, since the mysterious disappearance of the Blood Prince, the empire had begun to fray at the edges. Where before control over the surrounding cities had been absolute, not whispers of unrest trickled in. Where before cities had paid their dues to Boston gladly, now there was dickering. Threats had begun to seep in from all sides. The time had come to select a new Sword, a beacon of hope who would rally the people and defend their way of life.

As the emperor stood at the entrance of the tower, deep in thought, he knew that he couldn't afford to make a mistake in his choice. The fate of the empire rested on his shoulders – and its very survival hinged on the strength and resolve of the Sword he would select.

The emperor sighed, speaking softly to himself, "Ah, Tiberius, I didn't know what I had when you were here. Things are floundering now." As he rubbed his brow, the weight of his concerns pressed heavily on his mind. The once-expansive empire was contracting, the once-loyal cities were growing bolder, more brazen, and the precious orbs they could gather were needed more than ever at home. The vast stores of orbs that had been amassed over the years were dwindling at an alarming rate, consumed by the luxury and wealth to which everyone had grown so accustomed.

"They all grew soft," he muttered to himself, feeling the truth of his words as a bitter realization. "Nearly two centuries of prosperity, of victory... Boston has a first sector as large as some entire cities. But we all grew too comfortable, and now we're paying the price for our complacency."

The emperor knew that even the tributary states had grown soft in their dependency on his empire's generosity, making it all the more challenging for him to find new Griidlords worthy of the prestigious title. It was as if they'd forgotten the hard work and grit that had built the empire in the first place and given way to a sense of entitlement and indolence.

The emperor found his thoughts wandering to an old proverb that he had heard long ago: "Wooden shoes go up the stairs; silken slippers go down." He reflected on the profound wisdom of this phrase, recognizing that those who rise to greatness do so through struggle and perseverance, whereas those who rest on their laurels inevitably decline.

As he stood there, taking in the sight of the soldiers training before him, the emperor felt a renewed determination to find a Sword who would embody the resilience and tenacity that had once been the hallmark of the Bostonian Empire. It would not be an easy task, but it was one that he could not afford to fail.

As the emperor turned his head, he noticed the stout form of Baron Ironveil approaching him. He sighed inwardly, knowing that he could no longer just dismiss the nobles like he used to. These days, he needed their support, particularly with the growing unrest throughout the empire.

Upon reaching the emperor, Ironveil offered a polite greeting. "Emperor, I find you well, I hope?"

The emperor responded with subtle disdain, "Silas, how can I be well, with these fops as our best hope? One of these is to be our Sword? We need to do better. We need someone who can compete with Brightforge and the Redking. These fools are soft, probably spoiled with too much ice cream growing up."

Ironveil replied, "I keep saying we need to look beyond our borders. The RustKnight's alliance with the Hill Clans is an example. He would have made a fine addition, and there are others who are changing sides in these times of change."

The emperor scowled, noticing a lack of respect in Ironveil's voice that wouldn't have been tolerated in the past. He argued, "I've told you before, Silas, Boston is the heart of our empire. The Sword must come from here to demonstrate our strength and birthright."

In the emperor's eyes, Ironveil was a mere pup – a mortal like the others, a child barely in his fifties. The Emperor had seen generations come and go while he reigned. How could Ironveil understand the true meaning of the Sword?

Yet, even as the emperor dismissed Ironveil's suggestion, a seed of doubt had been planted in his mind. He used to be so certain about everything. For decades he never doubted. But now.. Was it worth considering the possibility of looking beyond their own borders to find the perfect Sword? Was it more important to show that his people were the rightful heirs of the world, or was the need to win, and win now, greater? Was it Boston or the Empire he strove to protect?

Ironveil continued to press his point, "We could send out feelers, dispatch agents to find dissatisfied Griidlords who may be willing to join us. If not a Sword, perhaps another – the Shield in Cleveland has changed sides before, and the Axe in Pittsburgh is ambitious and wasted on their feeble forces."

The emperor raised an eyebrow. The idea of Thorn Jaxwulf or Myrddin Galeheart becoming a Griidlord in Boston intrigued him. The Griidlords of his city had been feeble for too long. He remembered what it was like to direct titans.

The emperor sighed, said, "We don't have the resources to woo them, and it's a risky idea at best. They don't possess the loyalty we need. Our empire is being challenged both inside and out, and the last thing we need is heroes without loyalty. We need to show that we can still produce the greatest warriors, like Tiberius Bloodsword, that ungrateful bastard. We gave him everything; we made him a legend of legends."

Ironveil muttered under his breath, "And he gave us everything in return."

The emperor's sharp gaze sent Ironveil staggering back a few steps, the tension palpable between them. Despite the baron's willingness to explore other options, the emperor remained resolute in his belief that the empire's salvation must come from within. The people needed to witness the rise of a new hero – born and bred in the heart of the empire – to restore their faith and loyalty.

To the emperor, the very existence of the Bostonian Empire hinged on finding the perfect Sword, a champion who would not only defend its borders but also inspire its citizens. The search would be arduous, and compromise seemed increasingly appealing. Yet, as time grew short and the pressure mounted, the emperor held steadfast to his conviction that the answer to their problems lay right in front of them – and he was determined to find it.

Ironveil spoke up again, "The reason I came to speak with you is the situation in New York. I understand that the Northking and Southking have been meeting, and I suspect they may be considering a truce."

The emperor was taken aback, an uncharacteristic chill running down his spine. New York was home to ten suits – five loyal to each king – and their Griidlords were vital to maintaining a significant portion of his remaining vassals. If New York were to unite against him, they could potentially break free from the empire's control, an outcome that was previously unthinkable.

Anger flashed in the emperor's eyes as he snapped, "What are you doing about it, Silas? This is your field of expertise. Why are you only telling me now?"

Ironveil responded calmly, "I have pieces in place, but I have a drastic idea that I need to clear with you first, lest I incur your wrath."

Both concerned and curious, the emperor asked, "What is it?"

Ironveil explained, "The people of New York, both north and south, are growing more and more restless due to scarce resources and too many years of poor performance on the field. They have been relying on the orbs we provide. Our agents there have been sowing unrest, planting the idea in their minds that they could reject their kings in favor of direct rule."

The emperor considered this bold plan and asked, "Wouldn't the people of New York be upset about Boston's own lack of success finding orbs?"

Ironveil responded, "Orbs heal all – they get the factories running, the lights back on, and the people's lives comfortable again."

Deep in contemplation, the emperor recognized that such a move would deplete the treasury of the empire's precious remaining orbs, leaving everything hanging in the balance for the upcoming campaign season. The stakes were high, and the price to pay could be immense. Yet, as he weighed his options, the emperor couldn't help but feel that this risky gambit might just be the key to maintaining the empire's tenuous hold on power.

Chapter 7

Nicolas took his seat at the long, wooden feast table. Even his endless concerns with the business of his division were pushed back by the moment. A sense of wonder washing over him as he marveled at the incredible spread that lay before him. Row upon row of delicious, battered meats glistened with flavorful juices, and the scent wafted through the air, tempting him. The crispy potatoes were spiced to perfection, their golden skin producing an almost glass-like crunch when they were broken in half. To wash it all down, beers and spirits of every type imaginable lay in gleaming tankards and polished goblets, just waiting to be consumed.

As Nicolas sat eagerly filling his plate, he reminded himself to savor every moment of this luxurious feast. He would try not to get drunk tonight, despite the tempting abundance of drinks surrounding him. After all, his fellow soldiers deserved a responsible leader who could still maintain some degree of control amid the revelry.

The massive hall was full of celebration, with nobles and soldiers alike singing and toasting to their marvelous victory. They had captured the wild Orb, a remarkable boon that would benefit their lands and people greatly. The nobles and their nation had not long since thrown off the oppressive yoke of the Empire, and with this latest addition to their treasury, their future was brighter than ever.

Nicolas's attention was drawn from his plate as he noticed Jorin Brightforge approaching the feast table. The Griidlord still wore his glowing power armor, though his helmet had been removed to enjoy the festivities with the others. It was a rare sight to see gridlords remove any part of their suits, even to sleep. Order fields generally didn't seem to effect organic matter except in the most extreme cases. Intense wells of entropy were said to be the source of fiends, but such places were death to men in any case. Some effect of the order field in a Griidlord's suit inhibited aging, keeping their bodies young and in their prime for decades at a time – or even centuries, in the case of the legendary Bloodknight of Boston.

Brightforge flashed a handsome smile as he asked, "May I sit with you, Nicolas?"

Nicolas, startled, replied with enthusiastic yet fuddled words, "Yes, of course! Please, join me."

As the Griidlord sat down, the gentle warmth of his suit pulsing nearby, he signaled to a server to bring him some ale. Nicolas drank slowly from his own tankard, trying to think of something meaningful to say. Before he could speak, however, Brightforge started the conversation.

"I wanted to thank you for your vital maneuvers in the battle," he said, his tone warm and appreciative. "You and your men were gutsy and brazen. It was dangerous to be so close to the enemy, but you utilized the orb field well and managed to get your guns into action. Your bold choices changed the whole course of the fight, especially when Wraitheshade was forced to reevaluate once you opened fire."

Nicolas, humbled, looked down at his drink. "I was only doing my job, sir. It was the only course of action I could see."

Brightforge nodded, sincerity shining in his eyes. "Others would have chosen courses that keep themselves further from danger. You and your men put yourselves in harm's way, and in doing so, you won us the orb. I have you to thank, and the people of the city have you to thank as well. I'll be sure to mention your efforts in my speech later. You truly deserve credit for our victory today."

Nicolas felt flustered by Brightforge's words. He was unsure of what to say. He had always been uncomfortable with fame or praise, even from his earliest days in the ranks. He wanted to work, to get his job done. Words were cheap, words were manipulative. But he knew that his men needed recognition for their achievements. He spoke up, his voice filled with a mix of pride and humility, "Mention the 3rd Division, my lord, not me. It was all of us who did our small part, small when compared to the presence of the three Griidlords. We were barely a finger on the scales."

But Brightforge disagreed and replied, "The men followed you, Nicolas. Your strategy, your leadership, and their loyalty to you made all the difference. You were as valuable to the battle as Thedric, Jareth, and myself."

Nicolas waved a hand at him, said, "You credit me too much. I was trained to react. All I did was apply the same formulas I was shown, formula's constructed by men far smarter than I am."

But Brightforge laughed heartily, slinging his arm around Nicolas's shoulders. He raised his glass high and announced, "I hope to have you and the 3rd Division close by during the coming campaign season."

Nicolas felt a swell of dread—constant danger would accompany their constant glory. He scrambled for words, "We're not equipped for that level of combat, my lord. We're a general-purpose division, and many of our men are green recruits. For some of my sergeants, this was their first battle."

Brightforge just continued to smile, almost not hearing him, "The 3rd Division is an impressive unit, and you're an impressive leader. I'm thinking of converting your division, equipping and training them to fight specifically for orbs as specialists. We'd get you new men, new gear — special gear."

"Special gear?" Nicolas inquired. He wanted none of this, he wanted to keep his men in the securest and safest of situations. But he hungered to do better by the city. And a soldier loves new toys.

Brightforge nodded, explaining his vision. "Squads with power weapons. The Empire is struggling to purchase the same volume that they have in the past, and so the market is more agreeable. Prices are down and we've just gained another orb. We have the resources to make such a move during this time of change. With the Empire waning, it's a game of 'he who dares.'"

Nicolas looked awed and said, "An entire squad with power weapons? I thought the expense would be impossible and such weapons so rare."

Brightforge's voice grew more passionate, as he said, "I'm thinking we break the bank and equip one or even two divisions with power weapons and energy weapons. It would be almost like adding a new suit to our arsenal. The impact of having so many more men wielding weapons like that could be akin to adding a Griidlord or two to the field . . . Just imagine how the battle would have played out with that kind of gear."

Nicolas hesitated, still remembering the terror he felt when he watched a Griidlord tear through his men on a distant day gone by. He thought aloud, "We could take on Griidlords with enough of these weapons . . ."

Brightforge's eyes turned pensive as he watched Nicolas. "But we'll need to put such tools in the right hands. It is an immense power to have so many men armed with weapons like that. That requires absolute loyalty to the city and loyalty to me."

Understanding dawned on Nicolas. What Brightforge was speaking of was putting more power into the hands o the people. It was not something his class were prone to. Units of this sort could threaten the position of Griidlords in society. He replied, "It's a bold idea, but I see the potential. If we could even win an extra orb or two for the city, it'd be worth it. You can trust me, my lord. Cincinnati is all I care about, and I'm honored to be considered for this responsibility."

Brightforge's expression grew serious as he continued, "You'll need to make some cuts, Nicolas. Only the best should be trusted with such weapons. I'll see to it that you're given the best from other divisions to bolster your ranks. There will be no more greens among the 3rd. I'll also get you a new sergeant."

Nicolas, panicking at the thought of losing Bryan, quickly interjected, "But, my lord, Bryan is vital to our division. He may be green when it comes to battling with Griidlords, but he is a veteran of many other fights against regular men. Our division loves him, and I trust him. You said yourself that you need people you can trust."

Brightforge considered Nicolas's words, his demeanor making it clear that he would overrule him in a heartbeat if he felt it necessary. "Very well, let's see how it goes. You can hold onto Bryan for now, but be prepared to cut him loose if needed. You have much to gain, Nicolas. Nobility, honors, even a fiefdom of your own. Loyalty to a friend is admirable, but you must also be sensible."

Nicolas held his ground and replied with conviction, "My lord, I swear to you that Bryan is the best man for the job, and he is loyal."

Brightforge conceded, but Nicolas couldn't help but feel unsure of the depth of the Griidlord's sincerity.

Changing the tone, Brightforge said, "Enough of this solemn talk. We should be celebrating our victory!"

Brightforge stood up, his voice booming as he gathered the attention of everyone in the hall. Raising his glass high, he declared, "To Nicolas and the 3rd Division! Their bravery and tactical brilliance brought us victory and another Orb!"

The hall erupted in cheers and toasts, the air filled with jubilation and camaraderie as they celebrated their hard-won triumph.

Chapter 8

Thorn Jaxwulf, the famed Pittsburgh Axe, the nightmare that kept Swords awake at night, sat atop a hill, his piercing gaze focused on the distant lights of Cincinnati. Resolute as a statue he stared, a wolf staring at a chicken coop. The flickering flames seemed to taunt him, for he knew that they were celebrating. A feast was to be held that night – a reward the Cincy army would relish for capturing the wild orb. He couldn't help but feel a pang of frustration, cursing the fact that the orb had lain unclaimed for so long, within reach during the last campaign season.

His fists clenched as he thought of the missed opportunity to duel his rivals – to cross axes with Galeheart and crush Brightforge. Thorn's heart raced even as he thought of it. He panged for the thrill of battle, a sensation he had not experienced for months. He longed for it. The lust for glory. The desire to test his might. It consumed him, he felt hollow and half alive as he stood there.

Thorn's face contorted into a snarl as he begrudgingly acknowledged the fact that in there, they were celebrating their victory while he himself burned with impatience, unfulfilled energy coursing through him.

"If only I had known the orb had lain so close..." he muttered to himself. He tightened and untightened his fists, an energy had been building in him for too long. "I could have flexed my might. Oh, goddammit, but there was a chance for battle there."

The still night air did nothing to soothe Thorn's agitation. Instead, it only reminded him of his own solitude and isolation on the hilltop. He was alone up here, and there, so close, just beyond his reach, was the opportunity to sow carnage. As he watched the distant lights of Cincinnati dimming, his longing only grew hotter. They city was stilling, begging for him to slice in there in the darkness.

With a long exhalation, Thorn stood up and surveyed the horizon.

"Rest assured, Brightforge," he whispered. "Drink deep of you cups, eat well of your feast. Tonight may be yours, but you've woken the beast today. You avoided me this day, but I'll be ready for the next battle and you'll dearly regret your mistake of allowing the wild orb to escape my grasp – for I am Thorn Jaxwulf, and I will not be denied."

"You stirred me."

Thorn's ears pricked at the distant hum of an approaching Suit. His helm fed the senses directly into his neurology. Yes. That was the distinct sound of a Griidlord using their footfield to speed across the landscape. A mixture of calm and eagerness washed over him; he hoped for an enemy to confront, his hand instinctively unhooking his glowing axe. But even as he prepared himself, he recognized the hum coming from the northeast – from home.

As the pulse of energy revealed the monstrous form of Caius Hammerfist's power armor, Thorn couldn't help but feel disappointed to see a friend instead of a foe. He turned back, his hungry gaze settling once more on Cincinnati.

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"What the fuck are you doing?" Hammerfist asked gruffly. "Glowering like a sick puppy serves no purpose. Why waste your time and put yourself at risk? If the Scepter in the tower sees you, we'd lose our greatest asset. Think of our city and our friends."

Thorn's frustrations poured out in a lengthy explanation. "I watched three Gridlords and an army march into that city. The Gridlords were glowing with the absorbed Flows from the wild orb. I could have smashed them and taken those Flows for myself."

Hammerfist scoffed, his voice dripping with scorn. "So, what? You think you could take on three Suits and 3,000 men and still have time to absorb their Flows? You're special, Thorn, but not even you could do that. Pittsburgh would be so much less without you."

Thorn clenched his fists, the hunger in his eyes not subsiding. "I could have done it. With the element of surprise, I'd take down Brightforge first, then Hunter. Arcstone would be a problem, sure, but I could do it. And 3,000 men? That's easy."

For a moment, Hammerfist seemed to contemplate the idea, he had his own hungers, but then he shook his head dismissively. "Don't be fucking stupid. Even if you could take them all on, the Scepter would just beam you down. It's not worth it."

Thorn knew Hammerfist was right. He was no fool. He had held the Axe long enough to know the realities. But that didn't soothe his hunger for battle. His heart ached that a chance to test himself had gone by unrealized.

Thorn growled under his breath, the sound rumbling .

"You don't get it, Fist, it's like a fire in me," he said, his voice heavy with frustration. "It burns, demanding to be fed. When the campaign season ends, I'm left with this insatiable hunger. It gnaws at me, day and night, and I feel like I'm going mad. The longer I go without feeding it, the hotter it gets. I need to quench it, I'll go mad if I don't do something."

He turned to face Hammerfist. His face "It's like the color goes out when the season ends. Everything is gray now. There's just something about the heat of battle, the adrenaline that courses through my body when I swing my axe. It's like a drug, a siren's call I can't turn away from. And being without it feels like I'm being slowly suffocated."

Thorn looked out towards the flickering lights of Cincinnati, their feasting almost mocking him from the distance. "So they celebrate their little victories, ignorant of the storm that brews within me. If only they knew the true fury that lies dormant, waiting for the next opportunity to be unleashed."

He clenched his fists, glaring at the distant city. "This waiting, this constant hunger for battle, it's unbearable. And yet, I know I must endure it for the sake of our city and our friends. It just never gets any easier, Hammerfist. Never."

As he spoke, Hammerfist could see the pain etched across Thorn's face, the torment of a warrior denied the very thing that fed his soul. It was clear that between campaigns, the greatest challenge Thorn faced was not the enemy, but his own insatiable hunger for battle that threatened to consume him.

Hammerfist listened intently, his helmeted head tilting as he recognized the familiar struggles that Thorn described. After a moment, he responded with a depth of wisdom and understanding that only years of experience could bring:

"In my younger days, Thorn, I was much the same. That all-consuming desire for battle – it was an itch that I couldn't help but scratch. I was relentless, seeking every opportunity to prove myself in combat and to bask in the glory of each conquest."

He paused, taking a deep breath as memories of battles past flickered behind his eyes. "But as the years went by, I began to understand the weight of responsibility that comes with being a Griidlord. Our strength and our abilities are not just for our own satisfaction and gratification, but for the protection and well-being of our city and our people."

Hammerfist glanced at Thorn. He seemed to pause, to consider the other man. When he spoke, his voice was filled with sincerity, with empathy. "You have such incredible potential, my friend. Time and time again, you've proven yourself. I have roamed the field for more than a century. I have never seen the likes of you. They cower by fireplaces talking about you, but they've only seen fragments. Me, I've watched you since the beginning, I know the whole of it. If they knew... By the Oracle... It's not easy for me to say it, to acknowledge it... That fire that threatens to consume you, it sets you apart from the rest of us. But you must learn to temper that hunger within you. It makes you our greatest asset, but... You need to find the balance, Thorn. Your need to be tested is yours, not the city's. To be a Griidlord is to serve."

He placed a heavy hand on Thorn's shoulder. For men such as these such intimacy was rare. "I've had many years to come to terms with who I am as both a warrior and a man. If I could have put the understanding I have now into the body I had then... Swinging and axe is easy, Thorn. Looking inside and seeing what's wrong there, that's harder."

Thorn winced at Hammerfist's words. He wasn't accustomed to displaying such vulnerability. His words had poured out earlier, now he wished he could take them back just let them smoulder in him. It felt like a weakness to him. Thorn sensed though, that Hammerfist was no happier with the intimacy than he. He felt obliged to respond, if his friend would expose himself so, how would he do less.

"I am the greatest axe this world has ever seen, but I cannot help but feel that I am wallowing in complacency while our Pittsburgh struggles. Our people deserve nothing less than the best. No city has a history like ours. The whole world was ours once. But we can't seem to succeed like the Pittsburgh of old... I want to win, man, I can't stand this floating nothingness."

Hammerfist was silent then for a time. When he spoke his voice was heavy and serious.

"That's the shadow that we live under. But Pittsburgh is still one of the most prosperous cities in this land, Thorn. Under our watch, we've always managed to gather enough orbs to keep our society thriving. Our factories continue to pump out arms and armor; tractors pull our harvests to feed our people, and our citizens can sleep safely in their homes."

His gaze grew more intense as he continued. "The Empire has never been able to take us. For a long time, we've been an island of independence in a sea of conquered lands and cowering vassals. Our resilience and strength are the very reasons we have been able to hold them off."

Hammerfist looked Thorn in the eye, the conviction in his voice unwavering. "There are cities far worse off than Pittsburgh, my friend. We all have our crosses to carry. None would love to see the Burgh rise again more than I do. But that's what I've been talking about, who is that for? Is it for the people? Or for ourselves?"

Thorn's frustration simmered beneath the surface, although he felt somewhat placated by Hammerfist's words. Turning his visor back toward Cincinnati, he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling brought on by the missed opportunity for battle. He sighed heavily and spoke with a tinge of melancholy.

"I can't help but feel that my legend could spread even further if Pittsburgh was stronger. If our city thrived as it once did, I could do so much more, and there would be songs celebrating my victories."

Hammerfist allowed a knowing smile to appear beneath his visor. "Thorn, songs are already sung in your honor at home. And there's a whole new year ahead of us, filled with fresh battles and new glories waiting to be seized."

The seasoned warrior reached out with an inviting gesture, attempting to lift his friend's spirits. "Why not come home and leave this behind for now? There are flagons of ale and beautiful women waiting to put your troubles to rest. The next battle is never too far away, and we will be ready when it comes."

Thorn considered Hammerfist's words, knowing that the promise of camaraderie and the comfort of home would likely ease the ache of his unfulfilled battle lust – at least for a short while. Just as Hammerfist had once learned to find balance between his desire for action and the responsibility he held, perhaps it was time for Thorn to do the same.

Thorn's frustration boiled over as he thought of their current situation as a Griidforce. "You, me, even Pikestorm – we possess some of the greatest potential as warriors," he lamented. "Pikestorm may be young and relatively new, but his potential is terrifying. We should dominate in battles. But our Sword… Every Choosing produces a weakling, someone who either burns out or gets killed. The Sword is the heart of a Griidforce, channeling the Flows through us. We can't truly succeed without a worthy Sword."

Hammerfist nodded in agreement but offered a different perspective. "True, the Swords we've had have left much to be desired, but don't forget that the Rustknight is now among us. He's a legend in his own right and, for a time, even held the GriidCrown."

Jaxwulf couldn't hide his skepticism. "During his time in Denver, the Rustknight accomplished little. He might be burning out, or perhaps he's just grown old and mad. He's been wandering from city to city, taking up the mantle of Sword, but what is his true purpose? I don't trust him, Hammerfist. I don't believe in him."

Hammerfist contemplated Jaxwulf's concerns with a solemn posture. The uncertainty surrounding Roland Windrake's intentions weighed heavily on both warriors, adding another layer of unease to their already troubled hearts.

Hammerfist placed a reassuring hand on Thorn's shoulder, his tone earnest and persuasive. "Roland, even old and mad, didn't have us by his side in Denver. Whatever strength he has left, combined with our own might, will be more than enough to crush anyone who stands in our way. There are many cities that would give anything to have even one Gridlord with the power you, I, or Pikestorm possess."

His grip on Thorn's shoulder tightened, his voice filled with conviction. "With Roland at his worst, no one can stop us. And on his best day, we could conquer the world."

Thorn couldn't help but feel eager and somewhat mollified by Hammerfist's words. The heaviness in his chest began to dissipate as he pictured the great feats yet to come.

Now, Hammerfist's tone turned more jovial, his armored hand giving Thorn's shoulder a friendly pat. "For the love of fuck, let's go home. There's drink, food, and women waiting for us. We can enjoy ourselves and pass the time until the new campaign season begins."

Thorn finally relented, accepting Hammerfist's proposal to return home. The two Gridlords, standing side by side, summoned their Footfields – powerful currents of energy that would allow them to race across the landscape at startling speeds.

With a shared, determined nod, they burst into motion, their armored forms streaking through the night like celestial warriors come to life. The small hamlets and houses they passed were completely unaware of the proximity of these godlike beings, soaring just beyond their reach, leaving only a fleeting whisper in their wake.

Chapter 9

Clive slept deeply, seemingly undisturbed. The room he woke up in resembled a well-appointed hotel or perhaps a cabin aboard the starship Enterprise – a stark contrast to the dirty, medieval streets he saw outside the previous day, teeming with animals and the hustle and bustle of people.

Lying in bed and staring at his surroundings, Clive noticed a console on one side of the room and felt the hum of the air conditioner above. If he wanted he could summon light with a switch. What was happening in this world when the future and the past seemed to coexist like this?

As he stared at the console, he wondered what knowledge might be just beyond the reach of his fingers. That was, of course, if any of this was real. It was still an impossibility to accept this reality. He was startled as the door to his room opened. A young serving girl entered baring a tray of food.

"I'm Aerilyn," she said hesitantly. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. You're an honored guest of Elder Jarway, and he hopes to see you soon. The cook told me to bring you some food so you'll have time to eat."

Clive thanked her. She seemed pleasant, simple, unassuming. His curiosity about the world was growing as he eased into this reality. He said, "Thank you, Aerilyn. Can I ask... where are you from?"

Aerilyn, smiling shyly, replied, "Here, of course. Well, not from here. I mean, not from the tower. I'm from the outer sector of the city. I was very happy to get this job – working in the tower is great. Today is my first day, and I'm still learning my way around the place."

As Clive sat down to eat the meal Aerilyn had brought, he decided his first task should be to gather as much information as possible about this strange world.

Clive stared down at his plate, expecting some form of medieval fare. Instead, before him lay a platter filled with what he would have called a classic American breakfast: crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, golden hash browns, buttered toast, and a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice on the side. He had expected the fare to match the times, but this was all to familiar.

Looking to Aerilyn, Clive asked, "Is this a normal meal here?"

Aerilyn replied, "For those who can afford it, yes. In the place where I'm from, though, it's a rare treat. It's easier to cook this sort of food in the higher sectors since their technology is better."

Chewing a piece of bacon, Clive looked at her. He said, "What are these 'sectors' you mentioned? And how is their technology different?"

Confused by Clive's seeming ignorance but eager to please, Aerilyn explained, "The sectors revolve around the tower. Different sectors have different levels of technological advancements. The tower, at the center, always has the best and most advanced technology. Thanks to the Flows, as you make your way outwards, technology becomes more scarce, saved predominantly for the rich, nobles, merchants, and priests."

"So, technology just doesn't work in the lower sectors?" Clive asked, pinching a taste of hash brown from the plate.

Nodding, Aerilyn said, "We have some things that work when the order is turned up, like battery-powered lamps and toys. In our sector, our houses aren't wired for electricity, so we rely on batteries for power. Sometimes, the tower deems a sector deserving enough to have a higher 'Order,' allowing those technologies to work. It happens sometimes if they need to use construction equipment, that kind of thing... But that's a rare and special treat."

Clive, while deep in thought about the inequalities surrounding him, noticed Aerilyn looking longingly at his meal. With a kind smile, he said, "Hey, why don't you have some of this? There's more than enough for me. Please, join me."

Aerilyn hesitated, her politeness holding her back. "Oh, I couldn't, sir. It's not my place."

Clive insisted, "Nonsense. There's too much food here for me alone. Besides," he patted his pot belly, "I can't afford the extra calories."

Seeing his sincerity, Aerilyn finally relented and moved closer. She perched on the edge of the bed and tentatively sampled the food. As she tasted it, her expression shifted to one of pure ecstasy.

As they shared the meal, Clive's curiosity grew. "Can you explain more about these Flows you mentioned earlier? What are they exactly?"

Aerilyn, savoring each bite, responded, "Flows are gathered from Orbs, which are usually found in the wilds. The Flows create the Order fields, enabling technology to function."

Clive raised an eyebrow, "That's fascinating. So, if the Order in a particular area is low, then even a simple battery-powered lamp wouldn't work?"

While chewing, Aerilyn nodded enthusiastically and said, "Exactly! It would be completely useless, like it's dead. But if the Order is raised, we can do things like play games, read, and even indulge in shadow puppetry. All of this is so much nicer with proper light than relying on oil lamps or firelight."

Clive's mind raced, connecting Flows and Orders with the research he had been conducting before he found himself in this strange new world.

Just as Clive was about to ask what an Orb actually was, there was a knock on the door. Aerilyn quickly bolted up from her seat, not wanting to be seen in an inappropriate situation. The door opened, and a guard entered – a far cry from the medieval soldiers Clive had seen on the streets. This man wore modern armor, carried an automatic rifle, and had an intriguingly futuristic sword strapped to his belt.

Aerilyn nervously addressed the guard, "Sir Hearthguard, I hope I find you well. I'll be on my way now. There's much to do."

Hearthguard dismissed her with a wave and turned his gaze towards Clive. It seemed as though he was entertaining the thought that something more intimate had been going on between them. But his tone was sly and somewhat playful, not unkind.

"Elder Jarway is waiting," Hearthguard said. "It's time for you to come along. I'll escort you to the gardens."

As Clive put on his shoes – he had slept in his clothes – he asked, "Is Elder Jarway the leader of Denver?"

Hearthguard replied, "He is one of the most senior elders. Denver is governed by a council. Where do you hail from, stranger? Out in the wilds, perhaps?"

Clive, somewhat evasive, responded, "Something like that."

Together, they ventured through a sci-fi maze of hallways and eventually arrived at an elevator, which would take them to their destination.

Throughout the elevator ride, Clive and Hearthguard shared no conversation. Clive observed the elevator's mechanisms, noting how touchscreens were used to operate it. All around him, everything looked remarkably sleek and modern – more advanced than anything in his own world – a mix of metal, glass, and plastics.

The elevator descended and came to a stop in a vast foyer chamber that Clive barely remembered from the night before. Everything had been such a blur, leaving him in a daze.

As they walked, Hearthguard gestured towards a doorway. "The gardens are through here," he said. "Elder Jarway enjoys the gardens. It's a quieter place to talk, more private, with fewer ears. He seems to think you're important. You're probably not from the wilds, then?"

Clive responded noncommittally, "Let's just say, it's complicated."

Clive followed Hearthguard through the doorway and into the gardens, curious to see what Elder Jarway had in store. There was sense of unreality to everything, but at the very least he would play along with this world for now.

As Clive stepped through the door, his eyes widened. He hadn't thought of what to expect. What greeted him was a picture from a fairytale. The gardens stretched below him in a tapestry of perfection.

Manicured lawn areas were broken up with elegant flower beds. The plantings were perfect, the arrangements stunningly displayed. Every inch of hedge and topiary seemed to have just been trimmed. Not a leaf or a twig seemed out of place. If anything, it all seemed to be too perfect.

Little artificial waterways had been woven into the landscaping, babbling softly. Streams of crystal-clear water meandered between flower beds, and small bridges were constructed from wood and stone, providing a pathway for visitors to meander through the gardens.

In quiet, shaded alcoves, Clive glimpsed benches nestled among the foliage, where it seemed that one could indulge in private thoughts or intimate conversations. Dotting the landscape were statues of intricate craftsmanship. The statues frequently seemed to portray power armored figures holding swords, axes, some with bladed hands.

He recognized some of the plants. Others seemed totally alien to him. Trees reached for the sky, their branches outstretched like arms offering solace and comfort to those who sought a brief respite from the world outside.

Each area seemed to be deliberately organized to evoke particular emotions. Some spaces instilled a sense of peace and tranquility, with soft, flowing grasses swaying gently in the breeze. Others evoked a sense of energy and vibrancy, featuring vivid bursts of color from blossoming flowers and elaborately shaped topiaries.

The harmony of man-made order and natural beauty created a sanctuary that felt removed from the world beyond the garden walls. As Clive continued to follow Hearthguard in search of Elder Jarway, he couldn't help but feel grateful for this moment of serenity in a world that had so far been marked by confusion and chaos.

They soon found Elder Jarway sitting by a pond, where he seemed to be engrossed in watching the fish swimming lazily below the surface. Even in this idyllic setting, Clive couldn't help but notice that the fish bore a slight oddness. They appeared similar to carp but with bizarre features that reminded him just how far from his own world he was.

Jarway stood up as they approached and began speaking with Hearhtstone. "Thank you for bringing our guest, Hearthguard. Have you heard whether your brother has returned?"

"With all respect, my lord, I believe you'd be the first to know if my brother had arrived," Hearthguard replied.

Jarway chuckled at Hearthguard's response. "You're right. I would be."

"How is your wife doing, Hearthguard?" Jarway inquired with genuine warmth.

"She's doing well, thank you for asking, my lord," Hearthguard answered proudly. "She's been busy taking care of our newborn daughter."

Jarway smiled, "Congratulations on your newest addition. I look forward to meeting her someday soon. Your children bring life and joy to our community."

With a nod of gratitude, Hearthguard replied, "Thank you, Elder. I'll make sure to let my wife know you were asking."

After they exchanged a few more pleasantries, Hearthguard took his leave, and Clive found himself alone with Elder Jarway in the peaceful garden.

Jarway, appearing less stern than during their previous encounter, inquired about Clive's well-being. "How did you sleep? Did you find the room comfortable? How was your breakfast?"

Clive, aware of Jarway's leadership position and power, answered docilely, "I slept well, thank you. The room was very comfortable, and the breakfast was delicious."

There was a brief silence between them. Clive felt as though Jarway was deliberately using the quiet to provoke him into speaking. He tried to resist the discomfort, but it soon got the better of him.

Eventually, Clive asked, "What do you intend to do with me? What use do you expect to make of my... situation?"

Jarway regarded him thoughtfully before responding. "If what you claimed yesterday is true, that you're from The Before, then you have the potential to be of great importance here. Your arrival is an amazing phenomenon, a miracle, even. The extent of your knowledge could prove invaluable, and your unique traits could make you a valuable asset to our community."

Clive had to fight to keep his words from tumbling over each other. "I don't know what 'The Before' or even 'The Now' really means. One moment, I was working in my lab on a project, and the next, I found myself standing in that strange stone room."

Jarway leaned in, fixing Clive's eyes with his own. "Why don't you start by telling me about the nature of your project."

Clive hesitated for a moment. How was he supposed to explain what he was doing to layman? "I was working on what we called 'function fields.' It was a new technology that seemed to control entropy, affecting the fineness of tech that could operate."

Jarway nodded thoughtfully. "Ah, we call them 'Order Fields' here. So, this technology was relatively new in your time?"

"Yes," Clive replied. "It was cutting-edge technology, and the potential applications were vast, ranging from military to civilian purposes."

Clive had made the connection, was still making the connections. "In the military, imagine entire battlefields where advanced technology abruptly ceases to function. Rifles would be reduced to clubs, and tanks would become useless hunks of metal. The side that could control the effect of these fields would have total control in any conflict."

He paused. This had been his passion. Dammit, this was his passion. "Now picture the civilian applications. Urban centers could be designed to enhance the functioning of technology within their limits, leading to more efficient energy production, communication, and travel. On the other hand, wilderness areas could be designated as low-tech zones, preserving their natural state."

Clive glanced at Jarway, whose eyebrow was raised in interest. "The possibilities are nearly endless. Had we been able to refine and master this technology, it could have revolutionized our society in countless ways, opening up new avenues of development that we could have never before imagined."

Jarway stared back at Clive. Clive had the sensation in that moment that he was a worm before a hungry, clever bird. He faltered as he realized that the technology he spoke so passionately about had, in fact, been mastered, and his own world was left far behind.

His emotions surfaced again. He found himself feeling that rising panic once more. Clive stuttered, "W-when am I?"

Jarway said, "When were you?"

Clive spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, "2024."

Jarway spoke with the tone of someone soothing a disoriented fool. He said, "So this means you believe you lived in the time before the 2100s?"

"Before... way before," Clive said, feeling increasingly uneasy.

Jarway explained, "The Before ended sometime around the 2100s. The exact date is unsure, but 2169 seems the likeliest."

Clive felt as if his head was about to explode. "When is now?"

Jarway's brow furrowed, he bobbed his head from side to side. "It's hard to tell. After The Before, there were years, decades, even centuries of chaos. Humanity was reduced to little more than animals, struggling to survive. We were more prey than predator."

As Jarway spoke, Clive tried to process the enormity of the situation he found himself in – an epoch far removed from everything he had ever known.

Jarway continued, enthusiastically expanding on the history of their time. "This is the year 1025. We began our dating system with the day the Oracle gave the first worthy people a Tower, in Chicago, to Padraig Dragonheart. That marked the beginning of the modern era when Towers emerged from the ground, and the Oracle began to show us the way to defeat Entropy."

Clive's mind raced, overwhelmed with thoughts and questions. He picked one out of the fray and asked, "Towers rose from the ground?"

"Yes," Jarway affirmed. "The Oracle found Padraig to be pure of heart and gifted him with a Tower that grew from the soil itself. It was the first of many. The next was in Green Bay, bestowed upon Padraig's sister, Lady Bridget – The First Sword."

Listening to Jarway's tale, Clive tried to absorb and reconcile the incredible history of this new world he found himself in.

"So, this Tower event happened over a thousand years ago?" Clive questioned.

"Yes," Jarway confirmed, "Our dating system has been accurate since the appearance of the Towers."

Clive pondered, "And the time before that is unknown, all the way back to 2169?"

Jarway nodded, "Yes, it's believed to have been centuries, but our sources from that era are scattered and often contradictory."

Trying to wrap his head around it all, Clive concluded, "So if I really have traveled through time, it's been at least 1169 years."

Jarway corrected him, "Not time-traveled exactly. The priests believe you were brought here by the Prophet."

Intrigued, Clive asked, "What is the Prophet?"

Jarway recounted, "It was a glowing aura and was discovered just before the Oracle granted the Denver Tower."

Curiosity piqued, fearing he knew suddenly, Clive inquired, "Was it something like a tear in reality? A blinding, diffuse light suspended in the air?"

Jarway, a touch of sadness in his voice as he thought of the Prophet's disappearance, replied, "Yes, it was something like that."

Jarway continued to describe the Prophet, his voice soft and nostalgic. "The Prophet was an enigmatic presence, with no clear form or defined edges. It was an ever-shifting array of colors and shapes – like a living aurora, dancing in the air. The phenomenon radiated a quiet power, an almost otherworldly energy, that seemed to both inspire and humble those who stood in its presence."

He paused, recalling his experiences with the ethereal entity. "Being near the Prophet, one couldn't help but feel drawn to it and overwhelmed with a sense of awe, yet also compelled to look away so as not to be entirely overtaken by its beauty and majesty. Truly, it was unlike anything we'd ever seen before."

As Jarway spoke, Clive's heart grew cold. Deep down, he realized that the Prophet may very well be the function field he had been working on when Bret warned him about safety concerns – a time he now knew was over a thousand years ago.