61. Sacred Charge
Sacred Charge
The final weeks before the Resh'Agar's departure blurred into discipline.
There was an endless list of preparations to make before his departure for Campaign.
But Kailorien's focus was elsewhere. This time, he was determined not to leave a single stone unturned.
He would never leave Auryn defenseless and vulnerable again.
Though he'd made a bargain with Shu'Khan, he did not trust his motives.
Not only that, but Sevrion's conspiracy had slipped past even the eyes of the Vesper Seat.
So Kailorien did what the Resh'Agar did best. Prepared for war. Not on the Surface, but beneath the Shields. A war on anyone that would threaten his sacred consort.
Every dawn, the Reskala trained in the Crucible, steel flashing, bodies driven until their lungs burned.
Kailorien’s voice carried over the clash of blades, cold and unrelenting.
They would march in step, or they would break.
He sharpened not only their weapons but their fear—fear of failing the Arm of the Voice, of failing Krystopolis, of failing her.
Between drills, he dictated Campaign journals, mapped routes, weighed supply trains against the lean stretch of distance.
Each decision measured and sealed in ink, so that if another hand must carry the record, nothing would be lost. Missives were sent to those residing at Stonewake.
The fortress had survived the battle nearly a century ago, but those on the Surface were still rebuilding.
He funneled supplies there, and as he did, he kept another journal—secret, hidden—where he kept record of contacts in the Veiled Bazaar and another project he'd started months prior.
Though his days brimmed with command, the nights left him restless.
Auryn was slipping through his fingers. Weeks passed with her presence dwindling, her body absent from their chambers, her light tucked away in her study in the Sokar's wing or buried in endless duties.
When she did return, her smile was too quick, her words too shallow.
She pressed her exhaustion into silence.
He told himself she was preparing for his departure, the same as he. But beneath the justifications lay a hollow ache: she was avoiding him. And he allowed it.
One day, he found Zarrek in the shadow of the training halls, helm set aside, scars catching the Polis-light.
Kailorien had reinstated him, the crest of command pressed back into his palm.
He'd been busy these weeks, scouring records and interrogating suspects in Sevrion's network.
Some was delicate work, for their plan was not to oust the traitors but gather them into the open, lull them into complacency.
Those who could not be gathered were culled, one way or another.
Not with a blade to the throat, but with trials, evidence, Doctrine.
"Zar," Kailorien called to his brother in arms. "You're early."
The Bloodletter grunted, turning to face him. "Said you wanted to talk, so I came. Need to make it quick. I'm going down to the Cataclyss after dark."
"Following a trail?"
Zarrek nodded. "An old one."
Kailorien raised a brow, noting the way Zarrek tried to skirt the topic. "This is personal."
"It is." He folded his arms across his chest. "It's the reason I came back to this rot in the first place."
Kailorien stepped close to him, setting a hand on his shoulder. "I think I know," he said. "The one with golden feathers?"
Zarrek blinked at him, his face like stone. "And if it is?"
Kailorien smirked. "I'd wish you luck, then. Though I never thought—"
"It's not that," Zarrek cut in, shrugging off Kailorien's hand. "No plans to obsess. That's you."
For a moment, the noise of the Crucible seemed to fall away—the clash of steel, the barked orders, the sounds of clashing magic. All of it dulled beneath the weight of Zarrek's accusation. A slow smile touched Kailorien’s mouth, but there was no humor in it.
"We said the same thing once," he murmured.
Zarrek’s brow furrowed. "What?"
"When one of the men got too attached on the Surface. We called him weak. Said it was a liability."
Zarrek huffed. "It is."
Kailorien’s eyes snapped back to him. Sharp. Certain.
"And yet here you are. Chasing ghosts into the Cataclyss."
Silence stretched between them.
Kailorien stepped closer again. Careful. As though approaching a cornered beast instead of a brother.
"You tracked her once already," he said. "Could’ve stayed on the Surface. You chose the Veinroads. I saw the way you looked at her when the Blightsphere tore apart the Han. She's the Riven's ward, Zar. She's a—"
"I know what she is," Zarrek stopped him. "And the Riven doesn't scare me."
Kailorien frowned. "He's an Apex."
"That supposed to worry me? Fought beside him in the old war, same as you," Zarrek shrugged. "I saw him in the Han. To me, it seemed like he was more interested in your little star than he was in his ward." He made a dismissive sound. "I'm not one of your Kelvasari to interrogate, Resh. Back off."
"Did you really think I wouldn't notice?" Kailorien tilted his head. "That orb you always kept in your tent. With the golden feather. You don't keep things close, Zar. Not resentments, not people, especially not trinkets."
Zarrek’s nostrils flared. "You don’t know what you’re talking about."
"I know obsession when I see it."
That landed.
Zarrek’s gaze flickered—just for a fraction of a second, but Kailorien caught it. A man once struck always knew the blade before it landed.
"It’s not the same," Zarrek said, lower now. "What you have…that Bond of yours. That’s something else entirely."
Kailorien exhaled, the edge in him softening.
"No," he agreed. "It isn't the same."
He paused, then added, "But it starts the same."
Zarrek stilled, and Kailorien’s voice dropped, quiet enough that it belonged only to them.
"One moment. One person you can't quite forget." He squeezed Zarrek's shoulder. "And then you wake up one day and realize you've built your entire war around finding them again."
Zarrek let out a short, humorless laugh. "You make it sound like a sickness."
Kailorien’s lips curved faintly.
"It is."
A beat.
"And you'll fight it," he went on. "Convince yourself it's nothing. That you're in control." His gaze sharpened again. "Until the day you aren't."
Zarrek looked away first.
That, more than anything, was answer enough.
Kailorien clapped Zarrek on the back.
"If you find her," he said, voice returning to command, "you tell me."
Zarrek scoffed, but it lacked its earlier bite. "Why? So you can lecture me again?"
"No." Kailorien’s grip tightened, just slightly. "So I can make sure you don’t hold the line too long. So you don’t lose what matters.”
Zarrek glanced back at him, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
"You're one to talk."
Kailorien’s expression didn’t change.
"My mistakes shouldn't be yours. Learn from them, like you've learned all the years you've been at my side."
In the distant yard, a horn blared, signaling a change in shift. Kailorien exhaled. Now, finally, there was time to speak truth.
“You know why I called you back. Reinstated you,” Kailorien said.
“To guard her.” Zarrek’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Yes. And more.” Kailorien studied the man who had served him longer than any, who had watched the city rot behind polished walls.
“While I am gone, you'll be one of the few people she can lean on.
Thrassus is coming with me as my Second, but I never would have trusted him to protect Auryn. Not like you."
"Sure you want him with you? He's blind to everything but Doctrine…"
"No choice. No time to train another."
"I'll watch her back," Zarrek said.
"The Solutus are targeting her. I don't know why, but we need to find out. The rebellion has always been a resistance against the Flaeme. Never against the Holy Blood."
"Being targeted doesn't seem to upset her."
"That is precisely why I entrust you with three charges. Protect Auryn. Protect Lu’ma. And see to the work I have begun.”
Zarrek’s brow furrowed when Kailorien handed him a journal. Unlabeled. A simple thing bound in black leather and sealed with a Sovereign rank ward.
"What's this?" Zarrek asked.
Kailorien’s mouth tightened, a rare hesitation. Then he said it, “A project. A sanctuary in the Aethermirror.”
Recognition flickered in Zarrek’s eyes—the glade outside the Shields, the spring that shimmered with its own power, the place where Kailorien had carried Auryn when she fell during the Path of Fire.
“I will build it for her,” Kailorien said, voice roughened. “A place untouched by the city. A place that answers to no Council, no Doctrine, no chain of Shields. It has already begun. You will see it finished.”
Zarrek stared, silence heavy between them.
“And the Campaign?” he asked at last.
Kailorien’s jaw worked. “The Campaign is nothing. An excuse for them. For me—” He leaned closer, eyes burning like blue flame.
“For me, it is an escape. I will hunt a way to sever myself from the Shields altogether. I have borne them for nearly two thousand years, and I am finished being their slave.”
The words struck like iron. For a long moment, Zarrek only held his gaze. Then the scarred soldier bowed his head, acceptance where others would have argued.
“You will have your freedom, Resh’Agar,” he said quietly. “And she will have sanctuary.”
Kailorien set a hand to his shoulder, heavy with both trust and finality. “Guard them with your life.”