Date: August 2, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The return journey to "Lonely Peak" passed in a heavy, viscous silence. The "Dead Loop" gorge was left behind, but its bloody echo still vibrated in the consciousness of every knight of the Seventh Detachment. The wind had picked up, covering the traces of the recent slaughter, as if the North itself sought to quickly forget about the existence of Tork and his men.
Grak the Axe walked ahead, pacing measuredly through the deep snow. His thoughts, usually straightforward and hard like the blade of his weapon, were now complex. His Herald-level gaze allowed him to see what escaped others. Grak analyzed not just the victory, but the price at which it was achieved.
"Iskon..." the commander glanced briefly at the young man, who walked apart from the others, clutching his injured arm to his side. "Cold, calculating, and utterly merciless. He didn't just kill a Pillar. He deceived the very nature of ranks. His Scaling spirit isn't just a trick with blade length; it's a surgical instrument. But he's playing with fire. The moment he exposed himself to Tork's blow, he staked everything. One mistake would have been enough for his bones to become part of this glacier."
Grak shifted his gaze to Kaedan. He walked with his head bowed low, his shoulders tense. "And this guy is the complete opposite. Kaedan is the foundation. His Unbreakable Armor requires a density he hasn't yet achieved. He is strong as a Warrior, but he tries to protect everyone, while Iskon protects only his target."
The commander understood that he had in his hands the most dangerous and promising tool in his years of service in the Order. The Seventh Detachment was born in blood, and Iskon had become its sharp tip.
Liana and Elwin walked a little behind Kaedan. They exchanged glances but didn't dare start a conversation. Iskon's silence frightened them more than Tork's fury.
"Did you see that?" Liana finally whispered, when they stopped for a short rest. "He didn't even blink. Piercing a Pillar's throat... It was like an execution, not a fight."
Elwin nodded, his eyes still glowing with the remnants of his Memory Spirit. "I captured every moment. Iskon calculated everything: the angle of Tork's sword swing, the speed of the blade's descent, and the moment the spike would emerge from the shield. He has no fear of death, Liana. Only the drive to complete the task. Honestly, I don't know who I fear more—the defiled creatures or the one leading our assault unit."
Kaedan heard their words but didn't join the conversation. His Vessel still hummed from the recent strain. The wound on his thigh had almost healed under regeneration, but a very different feeling was growing inside him—a burning awareness of his own imperfection.
"Iskon is already there," Kaedan thought, clenching his fists until his knuckles went white. "He is a Warrior, like me, but he managed to pierce a Pillar. My Armor... it protected me from four mercenaries, but against Tork, I wouldn't have lasted a minute. My energy is dense, but it's static. I am a wall, and he is a ram."
The young man remembered the oath at the Old Pine. To build a Better World, he had to become a shield that wouldn't waver before any threat. But today, he saw that a shield without a sword was merely a delayed death. Kaedan's inner fire demanded growth. He felt the Warrior level had become too tight for him. He needed to reach the Pillar stage, so that his word carried the same weight as the blows of his fists. He needed to catch up to Iskon, not for the sake of rivalry, but so that at the crucial moment, his Unbreakable Armor could withstand even the blow Iskon chose to take upon himself.
"I must complete it," Kaedan touched his steel cuirass. "Greaves. I need greaves. And a helmet. My essence must become monolithic, without a single gap for the enemy."
When the detachment entered the gates of "Lonely Peak," Kaedan didn't even look towards the infirmary. He headed straight for the training halls, ignoring fatigue and pain. His goal was clear, and the cold gleam in Iskon's eyes had become the best reminder that in the North, only strength capable of changing reality is respected.
The evening silence of the fortress was deceptive. Deep within each young knight's Vessel, new energy was already simmering, born from the terror and triumph they had experienced. The Seventh Detachment had returned home, but those who had left for the gorge were gone forever. In their place came new people—those who had tasted victory over a superior enemy and now thirsted for more.