Date: February 12, 542 since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The Central Nexus had finally sunk into twilight. The crystalline octahedron now emitted only a weak, pulsing silvery haze, barely dispelling the darkness of the vast hall. The knights of the Order of Order moved slowly, like shadows, careful not to disturb the silence that now seemed sacred to them.
Grak Axe knelt beside the body of veteran Soren. He lay at the base of one of the statues, his face, peaceful in death, seeming carved from the same obsidian as the Temple walls. Grak personally checked the gear of each fallen — it was an ancient ritual of the Order, meant to ensure that no personal item, no grain of memory, remained in foreign soil.
The commander's fingers, still stained with the soot of battle, touched a hidden pocket beneath Soren's breastplate. A small bundle, wrapped in oiled leather, was retrieved. Unfurling it, Grak froze.
Inside lay a sheet of parchment, folded several times, covered in small, hurried handwriting. The edge of the paper was slightly crumpled, as if the owner had often re-read it in moments of quiet.
"To my dear Mira and my little birds..." the letter began.
Grak did not read further, but his gaze involuntarily caught a few lines: "...the North is especially harsh this year, but I believe that when I return from this mission, we can finally fix the roof on the old extension. Take care of your mother, and remember that your father always..."
The words broke off mid-sentence, as if Soren had been interrupted at the most crucial moment. Grak carefully folded the letter back. His will, usually unshakeable, wavered for an instant. The Commander felt the weight of seven such stories settling on his shoulders, pressing down harder than any gravity.
"Seven..." Grak thought, rising to his feet and gazing at the row of bodies covered with cloaks. "Seven letters I will have to write myself. Seven families for whom 'Order' will now forever smell of this cold stone. I will tell them that their fathers and husbands fell for a great cause, but will that replace for them the warmth of the hearth and the laughter in their home?"
The Commander looked at Iskon and Kaedan. The young Pillars stood nearby, busy preparing the stretchers.
Iskon was frighteningly calm. The Hawk's light in his eyes made his gaze even more detached, as if he already saw the world from a bird's-eye view, where the lives of individuals merged into the general canvas of history. Within his Vessel now seethed power capable of changing the course of battles, but in his silence, Kaedan felt a growing chasm between Iskon and other mortals.
Kaedan, on the contrary, looked devastated. He touched his silver Armor, and each crack on it reminded him of the knights with whom he had shared meals. "I am a Pillar," the youth thought, and this thought brought him no joy. "I have become stronger, but the world around me has only become emptier. Is this the price of a 'Better World'? A pyramid built from the bones of those who believed in us?"
Elwin and Liana worked in silence. Elwin fixed every movement, every detail of this farewell. His Spirit was his curse — he would not be able to forget the color of the parchment in Grak's hands, nor the smell of dust in the Central Nexus.
"We are ready, Commander," Liana said quietly, approaching Grak. There was no trace of her usual enthusiasm in her voice, only a hollow emptiness.
Grak nodded. He tucked Soren's letter into his bag, close to his heart. "Move out. Our journey back will be long, but we will carry them home."
The thirteen surviving knights lifted the stretchers bearing their brothers' bodies. This was a mournful caravan, slowly departing from the heart of the Temple of True Balance. They left behind the Place of Power, the legends of Zanra, and the ambitions of great houses. They carried away only the pain of loss and that same new power which had made them titans among men, but could not heal their broken hearts.
Kaedan walked last, his silver greaves beating a steady rhythm on the obsidian tiles. He did not look back at the floating crystal. Now his gaze was fixed only forward — to where, beyond the icy wastes of the North, "Lonely Peak" awaited them, and the first night without those who had shared bread and steel with them.