The office of Commander Vaelus was built like a fortress—stone walls reinforced with aged brass plating, banners of past campaigns stitched with blood-red thread lining the shelves. At the far end stood a map table—its illuminated surface charting the vast spread of the Pontifical fleets. But Caelin's attention wasn't drawn to the relics, nor the glow of tactical displays.
Only the man behind the desk.
Vaelus stood when Caelin entered, his expression unreadable but alert. His armor was ceremonial—polished, crested, fit for a man who'd served popes and slaughtered heretics in the same breath. The desk between them might as well have been a war front.
Caelin stepped forward, the Lion of Judah gleaming faintly on his breastplate. His face bore the hard lines of healing pain, his expression carved from iron and shadow. He no longer looked like a prisoner, or even a knight.
He looked like a foundation stone.
"I've made my decision," Caelin said, his voice calm. Not cold. Not uncertain. "I'll form the house."
Vaelus studied him in silence for a long breath, then slowly nodded. Not with approval. With gravity.
"You understand what that means?"
"I do."
"That you will wear exile like a crown. That you will lead men and women marked by failure, possession, or heresy. That some of them will hate you for it. Others will die for you."
"I know."
"That if you fail," Vaelus said, stepping around the desk, "you will not be forgotten. Nor forgiven."
Caelin met his eyes. "Then I won't fail."
Vaelus gave a short, humorless laugh. "Good. Because the moment you leave this office, the eyes of the fleet are on you. Not as a knight. Not as a ghost. But as something new. You'll have quarters assigned to you, a designation. And the 333… they'll be told."
"Told what?"
"That the Lion walks among them again."
Caelin blinked. "The what?"
"The symbol on your chest, boy," Vaelus said, pointing to the breastplate. "The Lion of Judah has long stood for divine authority. But among the Forsaken? Among those who still whisper of the holy fire that once burned in the halls of the fallen Houses?" He gave a small, thin-lipped smile. "It means salvation. Or vengeance. Depending on who you ask."
Caelin lowered his eyes a moment. "I didn't choose the lion."
"No. But it chose you."
He turned, activating the comm near the wall. "Have the forges prepare. The new House of the Forsaken will need its own crest. Its own armory. Its own Barracks." He looked back to Caelin, voice lower now. "And may God help the next demon that crosses them."
Outside the thick windows, the eternal silence of space drifted past the hull of the Sanctum Caligar. But inside this room, something ancient stirred.Not a prophecy fulfilled, but a reckoning begun.
Caelin stood still for a moment, weighing the gravity of what was unfolding. Then he spoke, his voice lower now, like scripture spoken in shadow.
"There's one more thing," he said.
Vaelus looked up from the comm. "Speak it."
"This House," Caelin said, his gaze distant, as if looking back through blood and flame. "It needs a name. One that tells every soul who hears it what we are. Where we've come from. What we've endured."
He looked the Commander in the eye.
"Call it Exodus."
Vaelus raised a brow, slowly leaning back. The word lingered in the room like incense—ancient, sacred, defiant.
"A heavy name."
"Good," Caelin said. "So is the burden we carry."
There was a beat of silence. Then Vaelus gave a solemn nod.
"Exodus it is."
He turned back to the comm. "Log it—House Exodus, founded by Caelin, formerly Forsaken. Effective immediately. Begin muster of the 333."
The words etched into the record like a chisel into stone.
Outside, the sanctum decks groaned under their own weight. Something had shifted in the ship—not structurally, but spiritually. As if the void itself were holding its breath.
Inside the office, Vaelus studied him for another long moment.
"Go. The forsaken are waiting."
Caelin didn't salute. He only nodded—and turned, stepping into the corridor beyond. For the first time in years, his chains were not behind him.
The door to Vaelus' office hissed closed behind him, but Caelin didn't feel the weight of it. He moved through the corridor like a soldier toward an altar. The lighting was dim, soft amber along the walls, and still the air held the ghost-smoke of holy incense burned in the wake of the Pope's death.
He was halfway down the hall when she found him.
"Caelin."
Her voice was calm, unwavering as ever. He turned to find Sister Evadine standing in her pale robes, hands folded before her, the edges of her white garments brushed with a healer's crimson. Her eyes met his without hesitation, though she had clearly come in haste.
"You heard," he said, more statement than question.
"I did," she said. "So did the entire fleet. The comm lines are alight—every barrack, every mess hall, even the infirmary. They're talking about you."
"I imagine they are," he muttered. "Forsaken founding a House. It doesn't happen."
"It never has," she corrected softly. "Until now."
She stepped closer, close enough to see the scabbing still running like barked vines over the left side of his face. Her voice grew quieter. "They say you named it Exodus."
He nodded.
She allowed a breath of silence between them before she spoke again. "It's a good name. You've wandered long enough."
Caelin didn't answer. His hand found the lion-shaped clasp on his cloak, fingers brushing it without meaning.
Evadine studied him. "You don't believe you deserve it, do you?"
His eyes were still distant. "Deserve has nothing to do with it."
"Exactly," she said, with a sudden edge that surprised him. "Neither did Calvary."
He looked at her then—really looked. Her posture straight, her chin high, and yet her face bore the fatigue of one who had seen too much blood on too many bandages. She wasn't intimidated by him. Maybe never had been.
"You're building a House for the ones who were never supposed to return," she continued. "That's not pride, Caelin. That's grace."
He opened his mouth to speak, but she stepped back, folding her hands again.
"I'll see you at muster. Whether you want my prayers or not… you'll have them."
Then she turned and left, leaving behind only the soft scent of linen and myrrh.
Caelin watched her go. Then he walked on toward the old shrine they called the Cathedral Halls—where 333 forsaken knights waited, and House Exodus would begin.
The echo of his boots rang through the lower sanctum halls as he approached the great vestibule where his House would gather—though "his" still felt foreign. His cloak brushed the stone, the Lion of Judah bright on his breastplate, catching the flicker of votive flames burning in high niches.
He was nearly there when his comm-link chimed.
"Caelin," came Vaelus' voice, a sharp rasp like a blade unsheathed. "I forgot something."
Caelin stopped.
"Tradition," Vaelus continued, "demands you give a speech. When a House is founded, the Codex mandates the founder declare his purpose. It's not just for them. It's for the records. For the generations that come after. Every House has it written."
A pause.
"The speech is yours to write. But it must be spoken aloud—before the 333. It'll be recorded, preserved in the Sanctum Codex archives. Forever."
Static crackled, then the line went dead.
Caelin stood still. The great bronze doors loomed ahead. Beyond them waited the Forsaken—warriors damned by the system, saved by fire and faith, gathered beneath a banner that didn't exist a week ago.
His fingers clenched. His throat tightened. A speech? Not a sword. Not blood. Not a demon to kill.
This... would be harder, yet still—he stepped forward. And the doors began to open.
The hall was silent.
The eyes of the Forsaken—scarred, broken, shamed—watched him from the shadows, each one bearing the mark of exile. They waited. Expecting a soldier. A commander. A redeemer.
Caelin stepped forward, his voice like a storm held in restraint.
Caelin stepped forward—no longer a prisoner, not yet a king—before the gathered 333.
His voice rang out, measured and thunderous:
"I was cast out like you. Marked. Judged. Bound in chains. Called Forsaken."
He let the silence hang, bitter and holy.
"But I remember what was written:
'Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.' (Psalm 23:4)
Because I have already faced it. And I still stand."
He took another step forward, voice sharpening.
"'Blessed are you when men hate you,
when they exclude you and revile you and cast out your name as evil on account of the Son of Man.' (Luke 6:22)
They threw us out, but Heaven still sees us."
He turned, sweeping his gaze across them all.
"You are Forsaken—but not forgotten.
You were broken—but not beyond use.
You are exiles—but now you have a House."
He raised a scarred hand.
"'He trains my hands for war,
and my fingers for battle.' (Psalm 144:1)
With these hands, we will make war on darkness."
His tone deepened, resonant:
"'With you I destroy kingdoms.
With you I shatter nations.' (Jeremiah 51:20)
We are not lambs. We are lions born in fire."
He looked each one in the eyes.
"This House—this Exodus—is not sanctified with incense or gold.
It is consecrated in blood.
Yours. Mine. Ours."
Another beat.
"'Forgive your enemies.
Pray for those who persecute you.' (Matthew 5:44)
Yes—even those who Forsook us.
Even those who judged us unworthy to kneel beside them.
We forgive—but we do not forget."
He clenched his fist, held high.
"'The stone the builders rejected
has become the cornerstone.' (Psalm 118:22)
We are that stone.
We are the beginning of something new."
Then, softer—firm as iron wrapped in sorrow:
"We were the wilderness.
Now we are the sword that walks through it."
And finally:
"This is House Exodus. For the broken. For the burned. For those who were never meant to return— but did."
He stepped back...and the gauntlets struck chests—again and again.
As the echoes of the First Declaration faded into the high vaults of the hall, a silence fell. Not empty—but expectant.
One of the Forsaken, a grizzled veteran with hollow eyes, stepped forward.
"What is our oath, Lord Caelin?"
He froze. Not out of fear, but reverence. The weight of command, sudden and real, pressed on his chest.
He hadn't thought of an oath. He was still struggling to believe this was real.
But the words came—not rehearsed, but remembered. From long nights, deep wounds, whispered prayers in silence.
He stepped forward, raised his head, and said—quietly at first:
"As Christ lives…
I will not fear, for He goes with me.
He will never leave me nor forsake me. (Deuteronomy 31:6)
He arms me with strength for battle. (2 Samuel 22:40)
He trains my hands to stand when others fall."
The Lord is my shield and my strength. (Psalm 28:7)
I do not walk alone. I walk for those beside me.
I do not fight for glory. I fight for the broken.
I do not bow to darkness. I burn in defiance."
His voice grew stronger with every line. The 333 stood still as stone.
"I am a sword reforged.
A soul reclaimed.
A child of ash and exile—
But I rise. And I rise not for myself,
but for every one who was cast away."
"This is the oath of House Exodus.
Forsaken—but never again forgotten."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, one by one, they repeated it.
"As Christ lives…"
And something sacred passed through that place. Something eternal.
The oath would be carved into stone, codified in scripture, and spoken by every warrior of Exodus from that day forward.
But none would ever forget how it began—unwritten, trembling, spoken by a scarred man with a lion on his chest.