Date: December 25, 540, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The icy wind, rising from the snow-covered peaks, howled in the narrow gorge like a harbinger of doom. It blew under collars, pierced through the thin blankets the slaves wrapped themselves in, and made even the most hardened cutthroats among the guards huddle in their fur cloaks. Kaedan, chained to the wagon, felt the cold more acutely than anyone. He pressed himself against the wooden sides of the cart, trying to find any warmth, but the frost seemed to emanate from the very depths of the earth. His stone bracers, usually so hard and reliable, now seemed like mere icy weights on his wrists, sucking the last remnants of warmth from his body.
The slavers' caravan, strung out along the gorge floor, looked like a wounded beast. Wagons creaked, wheels stuck in the loose snow. People, both free and enslaved, moved in silent stupor, obedient to the will of the caravan master, a portly man named Borg who sat astride his horse in the center of the procession, wrapped in a luxurious white bearskin. His small, cruel eyes darted incessantly over the cliffs looming on either side. This place was an ideal ambush spot, and even he, confident in his superiority, sensed something was wrong.
Suddenly, Borg's horse reared, letting out a frightened whinny. At that same instant, the silence of the gorge was torn by a sharp, whistling sound, like the cry of a steel bird.
From the first ledge of the cliff, to the right of the caravan, a steel wedge plunged into the enemy.
There were no more than fifteen of them. But what fifteen! Full plate armor gleaming in the winter sun, without a single heraldic emblem, only the symbol engraved on the pauldrons—crossed blacksmith's hammers. White cloaks streaming behind them like the wings of death. They didn't shout. They descended in silence, and in that silence was a soul-chilling terror.
The first shots were from crossbows. Precise, calculated shots. Two guards in the vanguard crumpled into the snow, never knowing what hit them. One bolt went under the visor of a helmet, the other pierced a chainmail shirt.
"Ambush! To arms!" Borg roared, drawing a heavy battle-axe.
But his men didn't even have time to form up. The steel wedge struck the heart of the caravan. The warriors of the Order moved with frightening coordination. They didn't engage in individual duels. They moved as a single mechanism: two with large shields covered the flanks, the rest, wielding longswords or battle-axes, methodically mowed down everything in their path. The slaver guards, accustomed to intimidation and preying on the helpless, were helpless against this honed machine of death. Their blows glanced off polished steel, their cries of terror drowned in the clang of blades and the crunch of bones.
And in the center of this hell, *He* walked.
A man in armor no different from the others, perhaps slightly more massive. In his hands was a huge two-handed axe, which seemed impossible for a mortal to wield. But he spun it like a cane. Every swing was economical, deadly, and incredibly powerful. He didn't chop—he smashed. A shield, split in two. A sword, severed along with the hand holding it. A helmet, crushed by a blow from the butt. He moved through the chaos like a reaper through a field, and behind him remained only silence.
This was Grak the Axe. A legend of the Order. And Kaedan, pressed against the wagon wheel, couldn't tear his eyes away from him. Cold, ruthless efficiency. Power subordinated to discipline and duty. There wasn't a drop of excess emotion in this man, only pure, concentrated might.
The battle, or rather the slaughter, lasted mere minutes. Most of the guards were dead. Several, dropping their weapons, tried to flee, but the Order's archers' bolts pierced them in an instant. Only Borg and two of his underlings survived, who, at the very start of the fight, showing rare foresight, had dropped their weapons and fallen to their knees in the snow, pleading for mercy.
And then silence fell. Only the howl of the wind and the ragged breathing of the terrified slaves could be heard. The warriors of the Order, silent and formidable, stood in a circle, their armor splattered with crimson blood, bright against the white snow.
Grak the Axe slowly approached the cage where Kaedan and the other prisoners languished. His visor was raised, and Kaedan saw his face—stern, with graying temples, a network of wrinkles around his eyes, and a chin as hard as granite. His eyes were the color of steel, and in them was neither anger nor triumph. Only calm confidence and the weariness of long years of hard work.
He looked at the massive lock on the cage door. Then, without a word, he swung his axe and brought it down. A deafening clang rang out, and the massive iron staple holding the lock shattered into pieces, as if made of glass.
The door creaked open.
"You are free," Grak said. His voice was low and hollow, like the rumble of an underground tremor. "We will escort you to a safe place, feed you, and give you shelter."
Stunned, the people began to crawl out of the cages, weeping and thanking their saviors.
Kaedan didn't move. He stood, clutching the wooden bars, staring at Grak the Axe. A storm raged in his soul. All the horror of slavery, all the bitterness of defeat, all the rage and helplessness—it was all swept away in an instant by the sight of this absolute, righteous power. He saw not just a warrior. He saw the embodiment of that order and justice he and his friends had dreamed of under the Old Pine.
And at that moment, Kaedan understood what he wanted. No, not just wanted. What he craved with all his wounded soul.
As Grak passed by his wagon, Kaedan took a step forward and fell to one knee in the slushy, bloody snow. He threw his head back, meeting the hero's steely gaze.
"Take me with you," he breathed, his voice, cracked and hoarse, sounding unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. "I want to serve in the Order. I'll do whatever you command. Clean armor, carry water, fight!"
Grak the Axe stopped and looked intently at this emaciated, battered teenager with strange stone bracers on his arms. He saw in his eyes not childish delight, but a reflection of the same darkness he saw in the eyes of many veterans—the resolve of one who had learned the price of life and death.
A pause, which seemed an eternity to Kaedan, ensued.
"From sixteen, kid," he finally rapped out. His voice hadn't softened, but there was no refusal in it either. "That's the Order's law. Until then, if you want, you'll run various minor errands for the Order. You'll sleep with the pups on straw, eat what you're given, and learn. Understood?"
Kaedan couldn't suppress the tremor that shook his whole body. But it was a tremor not of fear, but of relief and piercing hope.
"Understood, sir!" His voice regained its firmness. "I will learn."
Grak silently nodded and walked on, to give orders. And Kaedan rose from his knees. He was still in that same gorge, amidst death and blood, but for the first time in three long months, he felt he was on the right path. The path leading North. Home.