Date: February 10, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The march through the northern wastes resembled the movement of a single, honed mechanism. The Seventh Special Detachment was no longer a group of disparate warriors assembled under one emblem. Six months in an icy hell had forged them into a monolith. The horses walked in a steady column, hoof to hoof, and the knights maintained distance and vigilance even during short halts.
Iskon still walked ahead, serving as the scout. His aloofness no longer caused whispers or irritation. The detachment had grown accustomed to his icy silence and his abrupt, but always justified commands. Now the knights knew: if Iskon was silent—the path was clear; if his Scaling Spirit made the space around his sword tremble—the enemy would fall before anyone could even draw a blade. His individualism had integrated into the overall tactics, becoming that sharp edge that always cut a path for the others.
Grak the Axe personally led the group, and his Herald-level presence was felt as a heavy dome covering the detachment. The commander rarely gave orders—he only set the direction and pace. Under his command, the knights had learned to feel the rhythm not only of their own Vessel, but of the whole group. Liana and Elwin coordinated the flanks: her "Guiding Branch" infallibly found safe paths among the glaciers, and his "Tenacious Memory" registered every change in the terrain, eliminating the possibility of an ambush.
Kaedan walked in the very center of the formation. He felt his inner power hum evenly and deeply in time with his steps. Over these months, he had learned not just to summon his Armor, but to exist within it. The stone greaves, heavy and reliable, had become an extension of his legs. He no longer felt their weight; on the contrary, without them, the world seemed too light and fragile to him. Interaction within the detachment had become intuitive: when Iskon made a sharp lunge forward, Kaedan would instantly shift, covering his back with his cuirass. They were like hammer and anvil—one destroyed, the other held the blow.
As the sun began to set, painting the snows a cold violet, Kaedan immersed himself in thought. His gaze slid over Iskon's back, who, even after ten hours of marching, held himself perfectly straight.
"Six months..." Kaedan thought, feeling a hidden power pulse within him. "Six months ago, I looked up to him. His victory over Tork seemed something transcendental to me. But now... now I feel the wall between us crumbling."
The young man remembered hundreds of midnight trainings when he forced his inner essence to densify until blood oozed from his pores. He remembered how his greaves were formed—millimeter by millimeter, through pain and despair. Now he was not just a defender. He had become a Warrior standing on the very threshold of the Pillar stage. Kaedan felt his power had reached that limit where it yearned to burst forth and take final form.
"Iskon is strong," he admitted to himself. "His Spirit is unique, his will unshakeable. But I will no longer lag behind. I will stand beside him. I will become that very Pillar capable of bearing any weight the world can throw. My Armor demands completion. The helmet... I only lack the helmet to be whole."
Kaedan tightened his grip on the reins. The upcoming mission in the Temple of True Equilibrium was not just an Order assignment. He intuitively understood that there, among the ruins of Zantra's era, his Warrior's path would either end or something new would begin. He no longer feared Iskon or competed with him in the usual sense. He wanted to become equal to him in weight, so that his "Better World" would have a chance to exist.
Grak the Axe suddenly raised his hand, halting the detachment at the edge of a deep rift. "Ahead—the Plateau of Fallen Stars," the commander's voice was stern. "From here, we go in full combat readiness. The competitors are already here; I sense their inner resonance a couple of miles to the east."
Kaedan straightened in his saddle. His stone cuirass and greaves glinted dully in the twilight. The inner radiance in his chest beat with a steady, powerful rhythm. He was ready. Tempered by six months of continuous struggle, he set foot on the territory of ancient power not as a boy from an orphanage, but as a knight whose core had been forged from northern stone and his own will.
The battle for the Temple was near, and Kaedan knew: this would be his battle.