The soft light of morning filtered through the high windows of the war room, dust caught in golden shafts like embers in slow motion. Around the table sat the core of the hero's party—Koda at the head, his gaze steady, haunted. The others flanked him, each still bearing invisible scars from the horrors they had narrowly survived. Maia, composed but watchful. Junen and Wren, quieter than usual. Thessa with folded hands, lips pressed tight. Terron and Deker sat side by side, grim as statues.
Across from them was Calthis, the Order's highest-ranking commander in the capital, flanked by two lesser officers and the folded weight of sealed reports.
Calthis spoke first, voice low. "We've finished checking the other settlements once marked by Lust's presence."
He set down a dossier.
"No survivors beyond a handful of children too young to be… targeted." He paused to let that truth sink in. "The rest—burned. Torn apart. Some died in what appeared to be riots… others in worse."
Silence fell over the table like a curtain.
"Wrath," Koda said.
Calthis nodded grimly. "It's more than escalation. It's transformation. Every site where Lust lingered has become a tomb—and we believe it is Wrath who made it so."
Junen's eyes narrowed. "You think it's hunting the other Fragments."
"We know it," Calthis said. "We've tracked patterns of destruction, irregular seismic shifts, and heat spikes. Every indication suggests Wrath is not just spreading—it's consolidating. Gathering strength. Consuming not just territory, but… identity. Tearing apart anything touched by the others."
Wren exhaled slowly, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the table's edge. "And when it's done with that?"
"It turns on the cities," Thessa murmured. "On the people."
Calthis met Koda's gaze. "At the current pace, we estimate three—maybe four—weeks before Wrath finishes carving out its dominion. Then… it will march."
Koda's fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
"We've all seen what Wrath does," he said. "It doesn't conquer. It annihilates."
Maia turned her gaze to the others. "This isn't like the other Fragments. We can't just survive this one. We need to meet it head-on—end it before it spills into the heartlands."
Calthis didn't respond right away. His jaw tightened as he reached into his coat and drew out a sealed scroll, breaking the wax with deliberate care before unrolling it across the table.
"This isn't a hunt anymore," he said grimly. "This will likely be a war."
The room went still.
"The creatures Wrath touches don't just lose themselves—they become his. Fused with rage. Twisted beyond recognition. They don't wander. They march."
Calthis pointed to three points on the map—former towns, now engulfed by silence and scar reports.
"They're converging. These aren't isolated outbursts. The fragments' presence is drawing the malformed together—coalescing them into something organized."
"An army," Junen said softly, the words bitter on her tongue.
"Exactly," Calthis nodded. "And like any army, it will follow the trail of life. Toward food. Shelter. Emotion. That means us. The capital. The temples. The civilians."
Silence tightened around the room again, heavier than before.
"We'll need the churches," Calthis continued. "Every order. Every sanctuary. You all gave us a chance. Now we need faith to hold that line."
"We'll need the city to prepare as well," Thessa added, her voice suddenly steeled with conviction. "Barricades. Reserves of food. Shelter for the wounded."
"And the council," Koda finished. "They need to hear this from us. Not as soldiers, not as witnesses—but as the ones who stood inside that nightmare."
Calthis nodded.
"Then you'd best go quickly," he said. "Wrath won't wait for a vote."
The map remained open before them, red-inked routes like veins spilling out from a ruptured heart.
And with that, they rose.
They would speak with the council.
And the city would begin to prepare for war.
———
The Senate Hall within the Church of the Guide was packed to the edges. Tiered seats curved around a wide speaking floor, and every one was filled—some with nobles dressed in gilded silks, others in the robes of their respective faiths. Scrolls, notes, and holy texts lay half-opened. Quills scratched furiously. Voices collided in the space, a cacophony of fear and politics barely contained by order.
Representatives from the city-states sat in their designated rows—some silent and pale, others red-faced and arguing. The seat marked for Delrest remained filled despite its fall. Their representative, an older man with eyes hollowed by loss, stared forward with vacant numbness, hands trembling slightly in his lap.
The heads of the Five Churches were seated at the front in a solemn line. Their eyes watched, but they did not speak—each waiting for consensus, none willing to move first.
Calthis stood near the center, arms crossed, watching the storm unfold. He had already spoken once, and his words had been met with immediate panic and blame.
"Then send the militia!"
"No, the Church of the Shield should spearhead the defense—our fighters are seasoned—"
"And leave our cities undefended?"
"Why should my people die for yours?"
"They're already dead!" shouted a voice from the upper tier. "Delrest is ash, and we're wasting time arguing jurisdiction!"
Someone else snapped, "We don't even know if this Wrath is real, or some exaggeration from your pet hunters—!"
The room erupted.
Screams. Accusations. Calls to arms. Calls to silence. It was as if fear had cracked the foundation of the council itself—and now the pieces were shattering outward.
Until a single voice cut across it all.
"Enough."
The word boomed like thunder, not from rage but clarity. And in the center of the floor, Koda stood.
He wore his armor—its dark plates catching the faint light like a silhouette forged from shadow and moonlight. The hood was off and the calm etched across his face was deeper than steel.
He raised his hand—and Kindness poured from him like a wave.
The golden light of Maia's sanctuary unfurled through the air, radiant and still. And then, threaded through it, came something new—Chastity. Its essence was not abstinence, but restraint: the return of the self from chaos, a defense of mind and will so absolute it made the air ring.
The senators stopped speaking.
The representatives fell silent.
Even the five church heads straightened in their seats, their eyes wide.
The light did not burn. It settled, washing through the room like sunrise after a long and violent night.
Koda stood tall.
"This is not a war of borders. It is not about which god you serve or which city raises the first banner."
He turned slowly, letting his gaze fall on each group.
"This is about humanity. About children who cannot look their mothers in the eye. About cities where no one walks anymore. About Wrath—and the end that follows behind it if we do nothing."
He stepped forward, voice unwavering.
"I will fight him. My team will stand where no one else will. But if we fall, it won't matter whose name was on the decree. It won't matter who stood at the head of the table. It will only matter who's still alive to remember it."
Silence reigned.
The senators, for once, had no retort.
The light of Kindness and Chastity still lingered across their skin, a tangible proof of the power they would need to face what was coming.
And the room, shaken from fear and pride, finally began to listen.
Koda took that moment.
He stepped further into the center of the room, letting his voice rise again—not with the power of Kindness, but with the command of a man who had seen what they could not afford to ignore.
"We need supplies transported now," he said, his words crisp. "Food, medicine, shelter materials. Whatever you can give, send it to the cities that will take in the refugees. They must be ready."
Murmurs rippled again through the hall, but no one interrupted.
"Every outlying settlement needs to evacuate toward fortified zones. That includes frontier farms, logging camps, even merchant outposts. No isolated structure will survive what's coming."
He turned slowly, gaze sweeping the representatives, then the churches.
"The cities must prepare—build up walls, set watch rotations, ready their chosen. You all know who walks your streets. Now it's time they remember why they were chosen. Not just to server high positions, or seek fame or glory in the scars. To protect the innocent."
He looked last toward the highest tiers—the seats marked for the capital's council.
"And that includes here. The capital is the heart of our people, and that makes it the most vulnerable. This city must mobilize. I want every road and every border checkpoint manned with trained eyes and steady hands."
There were nods now. Fewer eyes cast downward in doubt.
Then, turning to one side of the hall, Koda looked toward Calthis, who stood beside the circle of church leaders.
"I'll need the Order's help," he said plainly. "I want scouts on the roads and at the fringe of every region. If Wrath marches, we need to see it coming. We need to track its movements before it becomes a tide we can't stop."
There was a sharp intake of breath across the hall.
To speak to the head of the Order like that—so directly, so comfortably—would've drawn reprimands in any other setting.
But Calthis just gave a slow, firm nod.
"You'll have it," he said. "Every blade we can spare."
Koda returned the nod, and for a moment, the room felt aligned in purpose.
No more argument. No more politics.
Just the cold, rising awareness that this was real.
And war was coming.
But not everyone bowed their heads to unity.
From the semicircle of raised seats where the cardinals presided, friction sparked.
Cardinal Isses, stoic and iron-voiced of the Divine Forger, gave only a solemn nod. She did not stand, nor speak. Her silence was approval—measured, deliberate. The Forge respected strength when it carried purpose and resolve. She would not stand in the way of action.
Cardinal Lucien of the Divine Librarian adjusted his round lenses, fingers already brushing his scribe's seal. His ink-stained robe caught the light as he whispered to his aide. Knowledge would adapt. The Librarian did not resist what could be documented and studied. His silence, too, was an assent.
But the calm ended there.
Cardinal Thalen, stern and towering, rose from his station like a wall drawn upright. The Divine Shield's colors shimmered on his tabard as he crossed thick arms and fixed his gaze on Koda.
"If there is to be war," he said, "then the Shield must decide where it stands and where it holds. Our sanctified duty is protection—not subordination. We will not have our forces commanded by one who bears no banner of the divine."
Beside him, Cardinal Enssa of the Holy Mother pressed a hand to her breast, sorrow and disapproval etched into her lined face.
"The innocent require more than soldiers at the gate," she said. "They need relief, healing, sanctuary—none of which were discussed with us. We oversee the people's well-being. Not battlefield generals."
And at the center, veiled in silver and white, Cardinal Veylan, the Voice of the Eternal Guide, stood.
Her voice was like cut silk.
"The Awakened are not pawns to be pushed by will. They are pilgrims on the path laid by the Guide. And that path is ours to reveal. You do not direct what was never yours to command."
Their words were measured, cloaked in propriety—but there was no mistaking the disdain beneath.
Koda's golden eyes narrowed. The quiet in the room stretched.
Then—he scoffed. Not mocking. Not angry. Just a soft, tired breath. The sound of disbelief given shape.
"The people don't need sermons right now," he said quietly, but the words cut through marble and ego alike. "They need saving."
He turned.
With a shift of shadow and a ripple of gold light, the armor at his back shimmered as he stepped away from the dais.
Several cardinals rose. One called out his name. Another Veylan demanded he return and answer for his insolence.
But the doors shut behind him before a single demand could finish echoing.
There were survivors to warn.
Cities to arm.
Children to keep alive.
He would correct them later.