Atop the fortifications of the castle, Hemian soldiers scurried about, acting on the orders of their respective superiors. The reports they had received cast a dim light on their future. An army of such immeasurable numbers was bearing down upon them. The United Realms of Lankos had built a unified force of two hundred thousand.

Riders had come in with reports of auxiliary towns and villages pillaged, their populace cut down or fled in terror. The army flooded across the plains like a swarm, annihilating all on their path.

The next stop was the border fortress. Only hours away would the army be at their doorstep, ready to siege and capture. Their modest force of ten thousand was sufficient for a general defence. But such a large force would overwhelm them in time.

They requested reinforcements, but doubted their timely arrival. The castle had grown lax in their defence of the border. Many years had passed without a major invasion. Border raids and minor skirmishes aside. This attack truly blindsided them.

If they had been more vigilant, perhaps they could have been better prepared. But for now, fear set in. Many a soldier wanted to retreat. To abandon their sacred oath to defend the realms of men. It would be treason and to the more religious, heresy.

Within the castle, away from the endless stream of soldiers, was a small chapel. It was a simple thing, merely a stone room with a modest selection of seats and a raised dais. It was the local temple dedicated to Pyrus. This temple, unlike typical ones, did not host a paladin chapter.

The order barely recognised it and largely acted as a civilian subsect of the temple. Built only a decade earlier, it had seen wear and tear over the years. Established as a place of worship by an elderly spirit magi.

The man was in his late fifties and been part of the temples most of his life. Being an orphan left on the steps and raised in one of the many orphanages. He was a very short man, with brown short hair, asymmetrical face most would find unappealing. The light of faith burned within his dull brown eyes.

Wearing the traditional robes of a priest, they were shabby at best, patched in some places. The only part of his attire with any value was the amulet around his neck. It was the symbol of his faith and the channel for which his patrons would avail itself.

“You should leave holy one, escape to castle Melkan.” A young soldier pleaded.

The young man, dressed in chain mail and leather armour, stood before the priest and begged. They had known each other for years; himself taking solace in his sermons. The Temple of Pyrus was a militant faith, but it had evolved a culture of its own.

“My place is here; the men need the temple more than ever. Place your faith in the Lord of Fire. Salvation will be at hand.” The priest evoked his god, despite the spirit never claiming deification.

Those of the faithful had deified Pyrus as the divine Lord of the Flame. The concept of gods existed in history; many beings of power had claimed such a title. Yet Pyrus never assumed the throne of godhood, for it was his faithful who placed him upon it.

This priest of the flame was one of the more religious sects of the temple. He has come to this borderland to preach, but found many followers amongst the soldiers. Being so closed to the heathens across the plains had kindled a spark in their breasts.

Several of them even gained favour with his patron. Becoming fire adepts, a step below a priest. They were more akin to a lower militant order under a priest or Paladin.

“If you say so, Master Gregori, I shall keep faith. May Pyrus flame protect the faithful and strike down the heathen.” The soldier prayed, gripping his pendant.

The pendant was a lesser amulet and could only channel a small amount of power. When used, it could render the wearer immune to cold and imbued them with a strong vitality. Gregori had observed several of his faithful summon incredible feats of stamina. The flame of their god burned bright within them.

The time was soon upon them, the army of heathens would soon arrive to trample upon the holy land. After he had sent the young soldier to his duties. Priest Gregori turned to the dais; the small tome lay on the pedestal. He knelt in supplication. The words contained within those pages were holy.

“I know I am unworthy, but I beseech you, oh vassal of the flame. The heathens are at our doorstep. They come to take that which was granted to us by your grace. Please, I know it is not my place. But I beg for your aid in the coming battle.” Following his heartfelt prayer, the unlit candle next to the tome spontaneously lit.

The room seemed to grow brighter, banishing the darkness. The small candle somehow illuminated the entire chapel. He saw this as a sign from his god, a sign that his prayers had been heard. Still kneeling, Gregori gazed into the flickering flame. For a moment it was merely just fire, but slowly the fire grew and suddenly he knew. Crimson eyes looked back at him through the flame.

His god did not say a word, merely convened a transcendent feeling to the man. Without words, the priest knew what his god wanted. The feeling said it all and so he rose to his feet, prepared to give his all.

Hours later, a horn resounded throughout the castle. Every man within this bastion of defence knew what that meant. The enemy was upon them, and it was time to stage a desperate defence. They needed to last until their reinforcements arrived, which was a day or so. The men were adamant they could hold out, despite the enemies' numbers.

Atop the battlements, soldiers stood vigil, their gazes cast down to the flood of beast-kin. The castle rested on an elevated plain. Forest stood before them, with some hills and a further mountain range. Behind them was the access pass to the eastern plains. The castle was the guardian of his majesty's realm. Every soldier knew that.

Looking down at the encroaching army, Gregori recalled memories he had long since cast aside. A past long turned to dust in the ever march of time. The faces of his parents blurred and indistinct. Yet the sight of a wolf-kin disembowelling them was very much clear. It disturbed him that the face of the thing that killed his parents was so clear. While his parents may as well be strangers.

Other moments flooded in, being taken as a war slave. The very wolf-kin that murdered his parents suggested it when the twelve-year-old Gregori hit him over the head with a bit of wood. From then on, it was nothing but slavery, travelling with a mercenary band. He had tried to escape several times but gave up after the seventh beating. Despite the harsh times, they remembered to feed him. The training was the worse, the way they fought was not honourable. Since the twelve-year-old lacked claws, they taught him to use a dagger.

A year he spent with them; never once did he stop hating them. No, that was not right. There was one for which his ire did not fall. His name was Rikal. He was the lowest of the war band. Apparently back then the united realms were not so united. Racial divisions bred a sort of caste system. He remembered the man clearly, some sort of feline species.

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Rikal was one of the few that showed any genuine concern for him. Gregori asked him once why he would care for a lowly human. Rikal explained that he had lost his litter and left it at that. He never learned more about him, before Rikal took a spear to the chest. The feline-kin were the only beast man Gregori ever mourned.

Once the slaughter had ended, the Tarkonian legion dumped him on the local priest. A stern man by the name of Ivan. He was a priest, albeit not a very devout one. Distasteful would be the best description of him. Young Gregori wondered if he was worse than the beast-kin. The way he used the faith as an excuse to beat the word of Pyrus into him.

Then, a decade later, he took an arrow in the eye during one of the many sieges. There was a moment where Gregori would have left it all. Taken the chapels' funds and left for places unknown. Instead, he stayed the moment he saw the look on the soldiers' faces. The lack of faith and the notion they would die in the next attack.

So, over the years, he became at least what he saw as a true priest of the faith. He tried to become the best of them. Ignoring a potential career amongst the interior temples and staying with the garrison. He even convinced a wandering spirit to become his patron. The chapel at least became an ordained temple through the modest blessing.

So many years went by, many deaths, many prayers. Now they were at the precipice of genuine change. The war had truly begun. No longer was this a gauntlet of defence, death and defence again. This battle would decide the fate of the realm. Only the faith kept him standing, a lesser man would have fled, he did not.

“If old fire breath is worried, that doesn’t bode well for us.” A voice said from the side.

Gregori turned to its origin, finding the figure of Oron. He was a short man, roughly five and a half feet tall. Being in his early twenties, the ginger haired youth attempted a smile. The elderly priest smiled back, an attempt to keep the humour going.

The moniker of old fire breath was a nickname the soldiers gave him. The story behind it was simple, dating back a few years. Following his ascension to a spirit channeler, Gregori would find fewer formal uses for his new powers. One was to entertain the children that visited their fathers. He would hide his amulet beside his face, produce a gout of flame, and pretend to be a dragon. The soldiers would joke that the old man was a quarter dragon himself and soon dubbed him an old fire breath.

“It will be alright son; you must have faith.” Gregori said reassuringly, trying to hide his own doubts.

The soldier immediately brightened. That was not just from his words. Gregori had noticed a visible effect he had on others. A trading of vitality that revitalises those around him. After inquiring with his patron, he learned this was common for fire spirits. Some sort of leakage occurs from the amulet in his possession. This is one reason he feels strong and fit despite being in his late fifties.

The two stood there for a while, taking in the future laid before them. The enemy was setting up their camp, siege engines were being setup. Something he had not expected. The beast-kin had always been the claw and sword type. All the previous sieges were volleys of arrows and siege ladders. Easy to repel if you had enough men and resources manning the place.

But this time they had a large army, with as many soldiers as the eyes could see. They were far more organised than the war bands he was used to. It gave those on this side of the continent a limited outlook on them. Many forget they come from an actual civilisation.

The camp took nearly an hour to set up, with both sides trading arrows every once in a while. Useless gestures, meant to harass each other. It felt more spiteful than strategic, or perhaps he just didn’t understand war.

While pondering this, he noticed several of the men tense. Looking down at the enemy, it was clear why. The attackers were making ready their siege engines. He could see trebuchets, onagers and battering rams. Beast-kin have not wielded such weapons for decades. Most dismissed them as savages, that only knew how to raid and terrorise.

This contained completely inaccurate information. What surprised Gregori more than the siege engines was the diversity of races. He could spot wolf, feline, lion, boar, bear and reptile-kin. He didn’t know their specific racial names. Humans referred to them as the animals they shared kinship with.

The only place he ever saw such a collection of races was Teskamir, the trade city. The southeastern city was the only place beast-kin and humans co-existed. although co-existence was a bit of an overstatement. There was still more conflict. The only thing that kept it from spilling over was the local constabulary.

Last time he was there was for a holy pilgrimage. He had found no end of heretical practices. The citizenries accepted shamans, warlocks, and demon summoners. He spoke to a warlock once. The heresy that came forth would shake anyone's belief. Comparing holy patronage to the spirits was no different to the submission to a demonic master.

Shaking his head from the heresy that inspires doubt, he turned back to the invading army. The collection of bestial races wears gearing up for an assault. He heard someone yell and immediately ducked behind the battlement. The next thing to occur was several massive rocks slammed into the wall. Crushing, cracking and the screams of men.

The besieging army pelted the wall with everything they had. The castle hadn't the resources to return the favour. Time and a lack of understanding eroded the defenders. All they could do was duck, hide and hope their lives wouldn’t end from a massive rock. Eventually, the attackers ended their assault after inflicting significant damage and killing many defenders.

The invaders lined up and sent the battering ram, surrounded by a column of soldiers. They all had shields and established a wall of defenders. The castle soldiers drew back their bows and sent volley after volley, to eliminate as many as they could. Arrows fell upon the shields, embedding in the thick wooden slabs.

No matter how many they sent, the ram kept on its course. Something needed to be done. Gregori knew this. Approaching the commander, he tapped his shoulder. The gruff and scowling soldier turned to him with angry eyes. They softened slightly for a moment, Gregori gesturing to his amulet. It was a gesture he recalled from the past and so nodded.

Arriving at the edge, the priest peered down at the oncoming ram. Several soldiers arrived beside him, raising shields in his defence. The trio waited for the right moment, and it came a few minutes later. Ordering the soldiers to withdraw their protection, Gregori thrust his amulet forward. A surge of power flooded into him; it was his patron. Filling every facet of his being with divine fire.

Calling upon the power, he commanded the symbol of his faith to spew forth vengeance. In response, a gout of fire, enough to make young dragons envious, erupted. It poured down upon the attackers, cruelty made manifest. Despite his faith, the sight of even beast-kin burning made him feel shame.

But the potential deaths of his comrades, weighed against the enemy, kept his resolve. By pure will, the fire descended, decimating the shield wall and setting the ram ablaze. The attackers screamed and howled as the fire consumed them. The advance stopped shortly after. Beast-kin ran screaming back to their camp, leaving the fiery wreck.

Breathing heavily, the priest sighed. That was a lot of power to channel, but not enough to bring him to his knees. The soldiers beside him glanced a worried look.

“Holy one, do you need help?” One of the shield bearers asked.

Gregori took the man's profile in, recognising him as a convert. The fire of Pyrus dwelled within him, granting greater vitality than mortal men.

“It is fine, no need to worry yourself dear adept.”

“But holy one, you channelled much divine power. Should you not rest?” The soldier pressed.

The priest found the concern and compassion a warm gesture, but inappropriate considering the siege. Gregori ordered him to focus on the enemy and quickly limped over to a crate. In truth, he was tired and needed to sit down. Spirit Channelers were akin to mortal men that had attained favour, rather than a kinship. The true spirit magi bonded with their patron, becoming intrinsically tied.

They could call upon the power of their spirit companion. While channelers could only request the power, channelled through an artefact. What rendered most channelers exhausted was bearing the weight of said power. Merely touching an amulet and calling on the power leaked into the user. It was up to the strength of the body and the power of their faith to endure.

A lull in the battle occurred, thankful the enemy were not war loving savages. No matter the propaganda against them, they cared for their fellow soldiers. They didn’t run screaming at the enemy, spending lives like droplets of water.