The crackling fire, the scent of Kindleroot, the freezing wind, it all reminded Quill of the night before the Crusade, when nine men had sat around a fire and said their piece. It was a night just like this one. Only now, there were five men around the fire, and no one was speaking.

Cross had left to receive the details of the mission from Captain Todd and Yoran was snoring loudly in his bedroll beside the fire. This left Quill, Deckard, Wil and Slim sitting in a circle around the fire, silently staring into the embers.

"Well, Deckard," Slim said, leaning back on his bedroll and exhaling smoke through his nostrils. "What would you say our chances are?"

Deckard closed the Codex on his lap and set it aside. "Chances to succeed, or chances to survive?"

Slim shrugged. "Is there a difference?"

"If we all die but the Totem is destroyed... I'd say we succeeded."

"If I die before I see the Totem destroyed with my own two eyes, I'm certain my last moments won't feel like success."

Deckard paused, stroking his beard. "Then... I'd say our chances are quite low."

There was a moment of silence, broken by Yoran grunting and shifting in his sleep.

"We will succeed," Wil said. 

His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, and he didn't take his eyes off the fire. "We have to. For all the men who will give their lives at Grelneer's Pass. For all the men who already have."

"Why do they call it that?" Slim asked. "Grelneer's Pass?"

The others shook their head or shrugged. It was an old tale, a footnote in the continent's history, but Quill knew it well enough.

He cleared his throat. "It's because of Grelneer, the Mad King."

"Never heard of him," Slim replied.

"A few hundred years ago, the North was it's own kingdom. It was ruled by a man from the Fjorlan. A man called Grelneer. He was a tyrant, a slaver, and most of all, a man who did whatever he wanted."

Quill sucked in the Kindleroot from his pipe, letting the warmth fill his lungs.

"One day, he was informed that he would have to wait for a boat to arrive, as it needed to circle around the continent. He decided that wasn't good enough. So he commanded his people to build Grelneer's Pass, a giant manmade river that cut through the continent, allowing ships to sail directly to his capital. The placement wasn't particularly efficient. The amount of time that ships would save was certainly not worth the manpower or the exuberant cost of such a project. Every advisor urged him to stop. But he did what he wanted."

Slim scoffed and shook his head. "How is it someone so mad could have so much power?"

"Perhaps," Deckard replied. "the power is what caused the madness."

"Yes, I've seen it," Wil said, gritting his teeth. "Men who are given just a single drop of it."

He paused, slowly shaking his head before continuing in a low growl. "They cannot think of anything else. They just want more. But they don't want one or two more drops, they want the ocean. In the end, that thirst for power can never be slaked. They refuse to give anything up, and take whatever they can, regardless of who gets crushed along the way."

Quill tapped a finger on his lips, trying to recall a story he'd read. "There was one man... but I can't quite remember his name.  It was long before Storovan was established, back when dozens of kingdoms squabbled for power and land. One of the kings was far more determined than the rest. He began to conquer and never stopped. Hundreds of thousands died, but eventually, the continent was his. The whole land was united into one kingdom... at least for a while. But once it was all done, he disappeared."

"Someone probably offed the bastard," Slim said with a chuckle. "You make a lot of enemies conquering the world."

Quill shrugged. "Who's to say? Some believe that he only ever wished to stop the warring and unite the kingdoms, once his work was done, he left to live in peace. Others think he was so broken from the bodies he'd piled up that he went mad and fled. But most people think like you, that he was snuffed out by one of his many enemies."

"Do you think," Slim started, "someone will sit around a fire and tell tales about us one day?"

They all looked to Quill, who quite literally had their story open in front of him.

He managed a weak smile. "I hope so. I'm sure someone will read our tale, but... I'm not sure we'll be remembered. We aren't mad kings or world conquerors."

"Aye," Deckard said. "It is never the farmers or those who build the roads who are remembered. It's the tyrants and villains who are never forgotten. The world never needs to be reminded of the essential work of the common man, only of the consequences of evil."

Slim sighed and stretched his arms over his head. "Y'know, when I joined I knew I wouldn't be given a medal by the king or anything... but sometimes, I can't help but wish for some recognition."

He leaned forward and Quill saw dread fill his face, the same dread that Quill had felt many times over the past few days.

"I mean... if I die, how can I know if I made any difference at all? What if all I did was pointless?"

"No death is pointless."

They turned toward the voice to see Cross standing a few feet from the fire, behind Slim.

He stepped forward and took a seat by the fire as he spoke. "When a man dies, it is no longer his duty to have purpose. It is the duty of the living to give his life—his death—meaning. No man who died doing what is right died a pointless death."

"That's why you don't mourn them?" Wil asked. "The only thing we can do for them is carry on. Finish it."

Cross didn't answer.

"Is it true," Quill began, "that during the last Crusade, your entire squad perished?"

Again Cross didn't answer.

Instead, he said, "Tomorrow will be the end. One last day of battle. One last push. We should all rest."

No one disagreed, least of all Quill. He carefully wrapped up his manuscript and tucked it into his pack. When he laid down on his bedroll, he was asleep before his eyes were fully closed.

———

A palpable tension hung in the air as they stood at the edge of the tree line. Grelneer's Pass lay before them like an empty gallows, just waiting for them to step into their doom. Quill stared at the frozen river that felt like a pale, deathless portal to the afterlife, beckoning them in. He glanced at his squadmates. No one had said it aloud, but they all understood what today was. More than likely, every man would die today. And every man wore that fear on his face, all but Cross. He looked at Grelneer's Pass with intense focus, like it was simply another rung on the ladder he must climb. 

"Where's Blade?" asked Slim, turning his head to scan the surrounding forest. 

"He'll be here," Cross replied. "When it's time."

Quill shifted his pack. It was lighter, as they wouldn't need any overnight gear for this mission. They'd been issued spiked boots and climbing gear as the only essentials. They were to cross the river, climb a hill, and defeat a monster. All while avoiding any Hallowbound that might slow them down.

Quill wasn't so hopeful about that last part. Looking across Grelneer's Pass, he saw blackened tree leaves shifting, but not from the wind. He spotted no Hallowbound yet, but they were there. Horrible nightmares waiting for The Order to set foot on unstable ground. A few hundred yards to his left, the main forces, comprised of the Vanguard, Field Ops and remainder of the Scouts, prepared for a fight to the death. Spiked boots would help them, but engaging in an all-out battle on a frozen river was hardly ideal. Quill wondered if he'd rather be with the main force, but in this case, neither option seemed great for his chances of survival.

Quill lit his pipe and looked to the skies. It was a cloudy grey overhead, but no snow fell that day. The sky too seemed to be waiting for the tension to burst. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. His ear still throbbed, his nose was swollen and red, his shoulder was stiff, and every part of his body ached. It was hard to believe he'd survived this much. How much more could he endure? 

He exhaled, his breath turned to a cloud of soft mist. 

Damn it all.

CRUNCH.

Everyone turned, drawing steel, prepared for a fight. Yoran let out a loud growl. But there was no monstrous Hallowbound behind them. Instead, something far more unsettling.

A man stood behind the squad—or at least what looked like a man. He was no taller than Yoran, but broad-shouldered and solidly built. He wore the same chainmail and red-sword tabard as every soldier in the Order, but no heavy cloak or fur for warmth. His skin was pale, covered in bulging veins and scars. His face was clean shaven, and his dark hair cropped close to the scalp. His face was not one of focus or intensity—only apathy. When Quill looked into the Sergeant's face, he saw a complete absence of emotion. When he looked into Blade's piercing blue eyes, he saw nothing at all.

An empty vessel with no recognition of the men before him. 

Blade held weapons unlike any Quill had seen issued by the Order. In his right hand: a long, single-handed sword with a full basket hilt of darkened steel. Its double-edged blade was straight and heavy, meant for both cutting and thrusting. The grip was wrapped in plain leather, the pommel solid and unadorned.

In his left: a thick iron dagger with a row of deep, jagged teeth cut into one side. The spine was blunt, the tip flat—not for stabbing, but for catching, locking, and breaking blades. The hilt was short, with a simple crossguard and leather grip. 

Quill had only read about such a weapon. A relic from Volant, forged over a century ago to counter the Storovan swordsmen during the southern invasion. Against most Hallowbound, it served little purpose.

But Blade did not concern himself with most Hallowbound.

The Bloodletter stepped forward to the edge of Grelneer's Pass and stopped.

Quill noticed that his breath didn't mist the air.

He held no other armaments or supplies, just his deadly tools. He didn't speak. Just stood, waiting. His body was unnaturally still. He didn't shift, didn't twitch even when a freezing gust tore through the pass.

"'Bout that time," Cross muttered, eyeing their strange new addition.

Quill tapped out his pipe into the snow and tried to settle his nerves. His stomach churned, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He could still turn back. No one would blame him. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t even brave. He could go home. Beg his father for forgiveness. Confess to the man he killed in that bar. Anything was preferable to this.

A hand gripped his shoulder.

It was Wil.

"Worry not, friend," the knight said. "While I yet live, you shall not perish."

Quill met his eyes—and saw he meant it. This wasn’t comfort. It was a promise.

He wished it helped.

But what could any man do against inevitable death? Stevan, Trevin, Vardok—dead, and none of them could stop it.

Without warning, Blade stepped forward. Calmly, he walked onto Grelneer's Pass. Quill turned his eyes toward the sky once more—and saw what he'd been dreading all morning

The signal.

Cross turned his head and barked a command over his shoulder.

"Move."