Five figures sat frozen by a massive column supporting the vault of the "Territory of Freedom." Identical cloaks with the embroidered wings of Erthrusia—I recognized the handiwork immediately, though I was seeing these people for the first time. They sat tightly, back-to-back, maintaining an invisible shield formation even here. Five people. Perfect distance. A true "Wing."
Looking at them, I involuntarily straightened, feeling an old ache beneath my armor. It was discipline raised to an absolute. It was what I had been taught in the monastery, and what I had walked away from when I chose the path of personal vengeance.
I approached their table. My sword, like their bulky weapons, remained in a crate by the gate under a dwarf's supervision. Without the familiar weight on my hip, I felt less like a Paladin and more like just a woman in dusty plate. In my fist, I clutched my holy symbol of Tyr—the Fist and Scales. In Erthrusia, Tyr was respected as an ally of Ilmater, but he was always viewed with suspicion. There was too much of the punishing judge in him, too little of the merciful sufferer.
"Good evening. Gellia Servatius. One of those looking for the road," I nodded, trying to keep my voice from trembling.
A woman with short hair and a gaze that seemed capable of seeing right through me slowly raised her eyes. Sirella. She was the leader here; it was written in every movement.
"Servatius?" Sirella narrowed her eyes almost imperceptibly. "So, the one. Mother Superior Augusta said you left the order for the Black Wolf's head. But I see no head upon you."
"The Wolf died a week ago," I replied, the words still bitter on my tongue. "Without my involvement."
A broad-shouldered man in the center—Oswen—gave a short grunt without looking up from his mug.
"So, you are a broken blade without a purpose now. And judging by the company at that table," he gestured toward Priorin and the Hadozi, "you’ve finally joined a band of mercenaries just to keep from starving."
Grace, a young woman sitting to his right, made a short, dry sound, like a snicker. Even without her massive halberd left at the entrance, she managed to maintain a posture as if still leaning on the shaft. She looked at me with that special condescension common to those who are absolutely certain of their righteousness.
"And what do you expect, Gellia?" Grace asked. "To bring Justice to these lands? Alone? With this... pride of strays?"
I felt my face flush. The heat rose from my neck. She had emphasized the word, a barb aimed at Priorin.
"I follow my oath. And an oath is wider than monastery walls and your instructions."
"An oath is discipline, Servatius," Sirella cut in. Her voice was low and hard. "And you stand in a tavern beside the rubble we usually hang along the roads."
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I involuntarily looked back. At the entrance, a group of bandits in dirty leather jackets were laughing loudly, discussing some robbery. I shivered. It was physically difficult to stand here without a weapon, sensing the proximity of people whose consciences were blacker than soot. In this, I was strangely close to Rorro: for us, the world was black and white, and these people were clearly on the "black" side.
"We are heading north," Tarn spoke up, adjusting a massive lantern on the table. "Akolis."
I froze. Akolis. The City of Temples, the cradle of faith in Ilmater. I had read about it in old monastery chronicles, dreamed of its white stones when I was still a novice.
"Why go to dead ruins?" I asked.
"Shrines remain there that must not fall to Magellan," Oswen replied. "Old items of former power, hidden in the vaults of the Temple of Ilmater. This is a matter for the Wing, Gellia. A real, coordinated Wing."
"I can be of use," I stepped forward. "I’ve studied the Temple plans. I know the structure of the dungeons."
Sirella shook her head.
"No. Akolis doesn't need the knowledge of loners. It needs a tactical link. It needs the person on your right to cover you with their shield before you even think of it. You, however, are on your own. You are a danger to the formation because you will go looking for your personal 'truth' where one simply needs to follow an order. You are a hindrance."
"I am a Paladin of Tyr!" my voice cracked.
"You are a mercenary," Sirella rose, and the other four followed her command. "Go back to your Leonin. Your place is there now, among those who don't know how to walk in formation."
They marched out of the hall, their steps synchronized. Five cloaks, five flawless shadows. They were what I had wanted to be, but now I saw them differently—as suits of armor with nothing inside but the rulebook.
I returned to my table.
"So, did the fancy folks turn you down?" Flint pushed a plate of some questionable flatbread toward me.
Beside us, Rorro was busy. He had swiped the small wooden lion figurine—the one he’d given Priorin hours ago—and was now "feeding" it breadcrumbs with the utmost seriousness.
"Priorin completely forget to feed his lion," the hobgoblin muttered, intently pushing a crumb toward the metal-bound mouth. "Lion is sad. Lion want to eat. Heroes don't care about little cats at all."
Priorin just gave a heavy sigh, watching the spectacle, but he didn't take the figure away.
I looked at them. No formation. No grandeur. Just a handful of random travelers tied together by fate. Rorro with his wooden panthers and bronze lions, Priorin with his eternal scowl, Flint, whose conscience was a mystery even to himself.
But at that moment, I realized: the vengeance for the monastery was truly dead. And if I want these Forbidden Lands to ever be cleaner, I cannot return to "The Wing." They don't want Justice; they want Order. And those are different things.
"They are going to Akolis," I said hoarsely. "For their shrines."
"And I take it we need to go there too?" Faurgar looked up from his tablet.
"Yes," I squeezed the wooden panther Rorro had carved for me in my pocket. "Ilmater's memory is there. And if Justice is even possible here, it starts with me ceasing to be just a 'revenger' and becoming someone who can hold this world together."
I looked at Rorro. He looked up from the bronze lion and gave me a serious nod. For him, it was simple: hit the bad, protect the good. Now my path, it seemed, was becoming just as straight.
"To hell with the formation," I whispered. "We go our own way. Even if Akolis meets us with swords."
Order vs. Justice.
The Core Conflict: Sirella and the Wing represent Order—the rigid adherence to formation and commands. Our squad, however, is slowly moving toward Justice—a messy, individualistic, and often "unbalanced" pursuit of what’s right. Gellia's choice to stay with the "strays" is her true graduation from being a novice to being a hero.
Symbolism Corner: Rorro "feeding" Priorin’s wooden lion is a small, brilliant bit of character work. While the "elite" soldiers are focused on tactical links and shrines, Rorro is focused on the spirit of the team. He treats the squad like a family that needs care, not a machine that needs maintenance.
Questions for the readers:
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The Wing's Rejection: Do you think Sirella is right? Is a "loner" really a danger to a tactical formation, or are they just afraid of someone they can't control?
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Akolis: The city of Akolis is our next major destination. What do you expect to find in the "Cradle of Faith" that’s now a ruin?
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