The light of the stars wavered as the sky filled with smoke. Fires spread through the city, wet thatched roofs smoldered and sparked as flaming debris was spit from the buildings nearby. Mages siphoned water from the rivers, spraying the city with a heavy rain, trying to control the blaze. In the midst of it all, the temple stood tall, its bronze arches reflecting the light of the fires into the smoky skies above, creating a thick orange haze that loomed over the desert.
From his post at the top of the temple, Arin watched the smoke as it filled the valley, pooling between the mountains on either side of the city. The river was high from the wet season, and the ash clung to it, moving downstream like a inky black tendril reaching through the floodplains.
Despite the chaos, Arin was steadfast. His duty was here, at the doors of the temple. He rested his hands on the broadsword in front of him, which sat in the crack that ran through the temple bronze.
Arin’s thoughts were interrupted as he heard the metallic clang of armour advancing up the temple stairs. With practiced precision, he lifted his sword from the rusted fissure in the temple steps, raising it to eye level with the unknown threat. A shadow spread across the antechamber, blocking the light of the fires from outside.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he recognized the face of Grand Paladin Aldan Valeo. Dropping his sword, he stepped forwards with an open hand, keeping his battle weary mentor upright. The royal bronze armour was stained with soot, blood and pitch. “Valeo, what’s happening down there?” He lowered the veteran to the ground, at the base of a column to rest, “Have they breached the gates?”
With bitter expression, he sighed, “They never touched the gates. They came from the catacombs, led by one of our own.”
“Erlo.” He pointed to a gash in his armour, hand shaking. “Gave me this, though I’m sure he’ll remember his much longer.” He coughed, too pained to muster a laugh.
Arin tensed, mind racing with searing vengeance, “Paladin, I will bring him justice, I will not let him see the dawn, I swear by-”
“No.” Valeo grabbed his hand and held it tightly with the last of his strength. “The king is dead. Justice has long since left us.”
The Paladin dropped his hand back to his chest, putting pressure on the now crimson armour.
“Take this, keep it safe, keep it from Erlo and whatever vile master he serves.” Arin opened his hand, and in it sat a blood stained ring, a small moon shaped jewel sitting in its bezel.
“Yes, it needs a new hand now.” Arduously, Valeo reached upwards, setting his hand on Arin’s shoulder. “Remove your helmet.”
Without question, he tossed it aside, leaving it to tumble across the pavilion. “Cleric Arin Wrentala, rise now as Paladin Arin Wrentala, The Last Guard.”
“No, no… I’ll get you out of here, then we can- we can go to Tor Shadal, they can heal you there-”
“Arin, go to the temple, take the Concordat, leave through the southern catacombs.” Struggling to his feet, he continued, “Go to Thumae, you will find help there.”
“Stop!” He shouted, his voice echoed, ringing through the temple halls. “I- I can’t leave you here, I can’t run from this, I can not just surrender!”
Arin stood, unmoving, with fearful hesitation.
“An order, Paladin Wrentala.”
He reached for the sword, cast behind him, and handed it hilt first to the imposing, dying man that stood above him.
“This is not surrender.” He grabbed the sword, lifting it to inspect the blade. “This is not failure, not defeat. This is war. And it is not over.”
The novice Paladin stood, head bowed with somber understanding. “May Dea carry you.”
Arin pushed aside the curtain that separated the inner rooms of the temple from the chaos outside. He paused to take one look back at Valeo, standing at the top of the temple stairs, hands resting on his sword.
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