Chapter 3: At the Holy Burning Tree

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A summons from the Knight Paladins soon called them forth in hall,

Where hammered steel and whispered prayer lent echo to each wall.

Young Aeron and the ghost, still bound, stood at Sister Eliwen’s side,

Before the Order’s council stern, whose judgments could decide

If these were times to open arms or cast out hearts in doubt,

For politics had stained the Church with accusations stout.

Lord Theodric, clad in relic plate, surveyed them with a frown,

Yet glimpsed in Aeron’s burning eyes a truth that weighed him down:

“Young squire, we need pure souls like yours to stand against the tide,

For undead swarm at borders wide, and trust in us has died.”

A wizened paladin, grey-haired, stood forth to speak anew:

“But rumors swirl that some among us twist the Phoenix’s view.

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Are you prepared to face the truth: that foes may wear our crest,

That you may stand ‘gainst those in power, if conscience deems it best?”

Aeron swallowed, soul aflame with righteous indignation.

“My father taught me how to forge, but never abdication.

If evil lurks behind these walls, or in the swamp’s dark thrall,

I’ll fight for life, for Phoenix’ light, I heed the higher call.”

And Eliwen’s gaze lingered long upon the squire’s face,

For when she first had seen the boy in Torin’s humble place,

She’d felt the Burning, Phoenix-blessed — a fire within her soul,

A fleeting spark of higher truth that whispered of his role.

Though words eluded mortal tongue, the insight still remained,

That Aeron’s fate entwined with theirs, his purpose unexplained.

“Perhaps the Phoenix chooses paths that mortals cannot see,”

She mused, her heart both drawn to hope and veiled in mystery.

A hush fell on the gathered knights; Theodric gave a nod,

“Then let the trainers train him well, but swiftly under God.

For necromancers band together under a lich’s hand,

And if the rumors prove but true, he seeks to rule the land.

We’ll send you all, priestess, squire, and ghost that clings to hope,

To root out tombs of blackest craft, that o’er the living lope.”

The ghost bowed low, ephemeral, yet resolute in quest,

A glean of wonder in his eyes to think himself so blessed.

He felt at last a purpose found, no longer bound by waves,

But forging forward, heart made strong to seal accursed graves.