A few months later...
The war simulacrum burned bright with synthetic firelight. Projected ruins flickered against the steel walls of the Exodus training hall, casting shadows like ghosts. The clash of metal-on-metal echoed through the chamber—uncertain, imperfect, but real.
Caelin stood atop the command gantry, arms crossed over the lion of Judah stamped on his breastplate. Below, the 333 moved through tight corridors, some clearing corners with discipline, others hesitating. It wasn't flawless. But it was better than yesterday. And far better than the day they swore the oath.
They bled together now—sweat, breath, grit. They stumbled, shouted over each other, made poor tactical decisions… but they stood back up. Covered one another. Adapted. Survived.
"Team Seven, your left flank is exposed," Caelin called through the command vox. "You die first. Again."
A light curse echoed over comms. Then a rough voice: "Adjusting, Captain."
Captain. It still sounded strange. He had no rank. No title beyond Forsaken. But the name Exodus had teeth now. Not reputation. Not yet. But weight.
A simulated explosion detonated in the western sector. Smoke—harmless but blinding—filled the bay. The squads scattered. But then, like ants under fire, they regrouped, reformed.
They were learning.
Not polished.
But dangerous.
From the shadows of the gantry, a voice said, "Not bad for men written off as dead."
Caelin didn't turn. He didn't have to. "Commander Vaelus."
Vaelus stepped forward, arms folded, his eyes scanning the chaos below. "I expected ghosts. I see soldiers."
Caelin said nothing.
Vaelus handed him a data slate. "I need three of your Forsaken."
"A mission?"
"A test. Outer Rim colony, Ascalon XI. First contact with an alien species ended... badly. No signs of demonic infection. Not our usual enemies. But something violent. Something smart."
"Scouting?"
"Scouting. Infiltration. Observation. Survival. This one won't be in the headlines. Just one more unrecorded mission in a long list of buried tragedies."
Caelin looked down at the 333. Their scars. Their unfinished armor. Their half-forgotten names.
"Why us?"
Vaelus's voice was low, honest. "Because if you die, no one writes a eulogy. But if you succeed—maybe the name Exodus stops tasting like failure."
Caelin nodded once.
"I'll choose three."
Vaelus turned to leave. "Choose well. The Outer Rim is colder than most hells."
The simulation ended in silence, save for the hiss of deactivated projectors and the heavy panting of worn-out soldiers. Sweat shimmered on armor, bruises formed under fatigues, but for the first time in months, the 333 looked like a unit. Or at least the shadow of one.
Caelin descended from the gantry. The training floor parted for him as he walked—some nodding with newfound respect, others avoiding his gaze, haunted by what they'd seen him do during the sanctum's fall.
He stopped before three.
"Silas. Brenn. Thorne. With me."
The woman straightened instantly. Twin daggers hung from her hips, obsidian-bladed and fast as thought. Her cropped hair was dark, matted with sweat, eyes sharp as flint. She said nothing, but her focus never wavered.
The first man, broad-shouldered and stocky, rested a hand on the hilt of a notched longsword. His face was pocked from old plasma burns, and his eyes were tired but steady. Silas.
The second was leaner, wiry. He carried his blade over the shoulder like it belonged there since birth. There was a chip in his grin and a wound behind his eyes. Brenn.
They followed without question. Through Exodus's steel corridors—newly forged, but already dim with the weight of history. Into the small war-room Caelin used as an office.
He stood before the table, the holomap of Ascalon XI already flickering with red sigils.
"This isn't a patrol," he began. "It's a test."
Brenn crossed his arms. "For us?"
"For Exodus. For what we mean to the fleet."
Silas's brow furrowed. "And if we fail?"
"No one will say they expected better," Thorne said flatly, her voice like sandpaper on steel.
Caelin looked her way, then nodded. "Commander Vaelus has chosen Exodus. I've chosen you."
He gestured to the map.
"Outer Rim colony. Lost contact two weeks ago. Alien species, unknown. Demonic activity: none detected. That means this mission falls below the Templari's interest. But not ours."
"Rules of engagement?" asked Silas.
"Observe first. Survive second. Report everything. Do not escalate unless there's no other choice."
Brenn cracked his neck. "And if we don't come back?"
Caelin's eyes didn't flinch. "Then die proving they were wrong to abandon you."
A moment of silence followed.
Then Thorne stepped forward, expression unreadable. "When do we leave?"
Caelin looked at each of them for a long moment. "Now."
That single word cut the air clean.
They didn't flinch. No jokes from Brenn. No sharp exhale from Silas. No flicker of doubt in Thorne's eyes.
"You report only to Commander Vaelus. No deviation. If contact is made, extract immediately. You are not to engage unless it is absolutely necessary," Caelin said, tone ironclad. "You are Exodus now. And Exodus does not act without purpose."
He stepped toward the chapel alcove built into the corner of the office. A simple iron cross hung over a narrow altar, flanked by two burning candles. The air carried the faint scent of myrrh and ash. He nodded for them to follow.
"Before you go," he said, kneeling. "We pray."
They knelt beside him in silence, forming a triangle around the altar. Caelin placed his palm flat against the stone and began.
"God of Jacob, God of the Wilderness, You who led your people by fire and cloud—go before them now. Guide their steps through shadow. Bind their wounds in silence. If the sword falls, let it fall in righteousness. If they are tested, let them not break. In Christ's name, Amen."
"Amen," they echoed, near-whispers.
Then Caelin stood, turned back to them, and said the words they'd come to live by.
"As Christ lives…"
They rose to their feet and spoke as one:
"…I will not fear.
The Lord is my shield and my sword.
He trains my hands for war, and my fingers for battle.
The Lord is my strength and my salvation—whom shall I fear?
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will not be afraid.
I pray for those who forsook us. I forgive them, but I will not forget.
With my God, I tear down strongholds.
With my King, I destroy kingdoms.
And in the name of Christ, I rise—Forsaken no more."
The oath hung in the air like smoke from burning incense.
Caelin gave them a final nod. "You have your orders. May God go with you."
They filed out, wordless, their silhouettes disappearing into the corridor beyond his office. So the first mission of House Exodus began—not with fanfare or banners, but with quiet obedience and a prayer.
Caelin had barely returned from the chapel when the comm unit in his office blinked to life. He tapped it. Vaelus' voice came through, steady as always, but laced with something sharper—concern, or perhaps irritation.
"Caelin. You're about to receive a formal challenge. Swords of Eden want a war match."
Caelin leaned forward. "A mock battle?"
"Yes. On paper. But it won't be just them." A pause. "Knights from House Argent, House Crucis, and even a few from House Zephan have volunteered to join them. They see it as… an opportunity."
Caelin's jaw tensed. "An opportunity to humiliate us."
"Yes," Vaelus replied bluntly. "They've made no secret of it. Word is they're calling it a 'test of legitimacy.' They want to see if House Exodus is more than just ash given shape."
A long silence passed.
Then Caelin asked, "Can I refuse?"
"You could," Vaelus answered. "But it won't matter. The judgment will be the same either way. You'd be called afraid. Weak. Unworthy."
Caelin stood, the weight of the Lion of Judah pressing against his chest. "Then we accept."
"I thought you'd say that. The match will be within two days. Formal rules. Non-lethal, but every other rule of war applies. Your call on who to field. But understand this: they want to break your house publicly. This isn't sport."
"I know," Caelin said. "But they forget something."
"What's that?"
Caelin's voice was calm. "Ash doesn't burn. But it remembers fire."
The comm clicked off.
Caelin turned back to the training halls, where the rest of his House still learned to fight in broken lines and scattered cohesion.
Two days.
That was all the time he had to forge them into something that would not break.
The alarm chimes rang out through the Exodus barracks—not for combat, but for assembly.
The 333 gathered fast, still in training gear, still marked by bruises, bandages, and burns from the day's drills. Some leaned on swords, others stood at stiff attention. Many bore the quiet, haunted look of those not yet convinced they belonged anywhere.
Caelin stood atop the central platform in the simulation hall, the crest of the Lion of Judah glinting on his breastplate.
He scanned their faces.
Not soldiers.
Not yet.
But something stronger stirred beneath the surface—raw, painful, imperfect—but real.
He raised his voice.
"Two days from now, we will be tested."
No one moved.
"The Swords of Eden have called for a match. A war simulation. But it won't just be them. Knights from the noble houses will be there too—Argent, Crucis, Zephan." He let the names linger, felt the flinch of old wounds at the mention of those who once cast them out. "They mean to break us. Publicly. Permanently."
A low murmur rippled through the ranks, but he cut through it with steady command.
"They think we're trash. Failures. Nothing but ashes swept from cleaner halls. They call us Forsaken, like the word should make us shrink."
His voice hardened.
"But I say this: they are not ready for what ashes can become when wind stirs them."
He descended the steps slowly, walking among them as he spoke.
"Each of you was cast out. Betrayed. Laughed at. Forgotten."
He stopped near a cluster of them, laid a hand on the shoulder of a younger knight whose sword arm was still healing. The man flinched—but didn't pull away.
"But I know different. I saw it on the Sanctum Caligar. I saw it in every strike you made in these halls. I see it now."
He stepped back, voice rising again.
"They want to see us break? Then let them try. Let them see what the Forsaken look like when they stop surviving and start rising."
He turned toward the control platform.
"Simulations begin now. Pair up. Rotate teams. I want sweat. I want blood. I want broken blades and broken egos. Because when they come—when they look down on us—I want them to see a House that does not bow."
The lights of the chamber shifted red. The war simulation hall roared to life around them. Now, for the first time, the Forsaken moved not with hesitation, but with a fire starting to take hold.
The simulation chamber roared to life and the first several minutes were chaos.
Steel clanged against steel. Shields locked. War cries echoed through the chamber—but it was sloppy. Formations broke. Coordination faltered. Half the Forsaken still fought like lone wolves, like exiles with no brotherhood to stand beside.
Caelin watched from the command platform, jaw tight.
A misstep. A missed flank. A sword raised too slow. A partner left exposed.
He'd seen enough. He stepped off the platform, grabbed his helmet, and stalked into the field like a coming storm.
"Form on me!" he barked, voice sharp as a blade.
Some hesitated. Others turned with wide eyes.
"Now!"
His voice struck like thunder, and the tide shifted. Several Forsaken surged to his position, locking shields and tightening their lines under his direct command. Caelin didn't ask for a report. He didn't wait for cohesion. He became the spearhead.
He drove into the holographic demons like a battering ram, striking with his gauntlets and shouldering them down, bellowing orders over the din.
"Left flank, press in! If he falls, you fall! Shields forward! You don't have time to bleed!"
He watched as others responded—movement sharpening, formations tightening, cohesion forming like iron pulled from slag. But it wasn't enough.
He raised a gauntlet toward the control deck.
"Switch enemy simulation—" his voice rang out, deliberate, deadly. "Templari knights. Rank: active. Class: Paladin. Mix in captains. Codex trained."
The operator froze, stunned. "Commander—Sir, that's—those are elite—"
"Do it."
A heavy chime answered.
The battlefield shimmered. Demonic avatars vanished—replaced by silver-clad Templari knights. Their movements were crisp, their weapons deadly, their precision merciless.
One of the Forsaken faltered the moment he saw them—eyes wide with the memory of rejection, exile, shame.
Caelin caught his gaze. "They cast you out. You don't need their mercy—earn your place!"
Then he charged.
Steel met steel with a deafening crack. Caelin ducked under a swing, disarmed a knight with a savage elbow to the arm, and slammed his knee into another's plated chest.
The Forsaken rallied around him—not perfectly, but with fire. A few fell. More held their ground. Shields locked tighter. Movements aligned.
And the oath they had sworn whispered in their minds.
Caelin fought at the front until the simulation timer ran dry and the battlefield flickered into silence.
They hadn't won.
But for the first time…
They hadn't lost.
He looked around at the panting, bloodied soldiers. The failures. The outcasts. The forgotten.
And he saw the flicker of something rare.
Hope.
The simulation ended.
Silence fell.
Steam hissed from vents above, and the flickering lights of the chamber cast long shadows over sweat-slicked armor and trembling limbs. Some Forsaken dropped to their knees. Others leaned on swords. A few collapsed entirely.
They expected reprieve.
Caelin gave none.
He tore off his helmet, eyes burning. "Again."
No one moved.
He stepped forward, voice like flint on steel. "I said again! Form up! Reset the simulation. Same enemy—Templari knights. Same parameters. No mercy."
Groans echoed from the ranks. One man, pale and winded, raised his voice. "Commander… we're—"
Caelin was in front of him before he could finish.
"You're what? Tired? So were the martyrs. So was Christ when He carried the Cross. Now get up. Form. Up. Now."
The soldier staggered to his feet. The rest followed—slowly, aching, but obeying.
The chamber reset. Silver-armored Templari flickered into existence once more, shields at the ready, blades gleaming in the dim light.
Caelin didn't hesitate. He pointed toward the left flank. "You collapse again, I make you run it alone."
To the right: "Your shield spacing was trash. Three inches tighter or I'll sew them to your arms."
He paced the lines like a general in ancient war, eyes scanning every sword grip, every stance, every flicker of fear. "You want to be forgiven? Then bleed for it. You want to prove you were wrongfully Forsaken? Then prove it."
He turned, voice lowering—but not in volume.
"Because if you don't—if we don't—then they're right about us. That we're nothing. That we deserved to be cast out. That we're ashes in snow."
He raised his blade.
"Exodus—advance."
The battle erupted again.
This time, it was different.
The Forsaken moved like wounded animals—wary, bruised, but no longer wild. They followed formation. Shields locked with shields. Sword arms rose and fell in rhythm. Their voices joined together in harsh, primal cries—not of desperation, but of defiance.
Caelin fought beside them.
He crashed through the Templari projections like a storm given flesh. His shield shattered one knight's guard while his blade slid through the next. He barked orders between blows. Shouted names. Called positions.
And when one man broke formation—he was there.
"Back in line, Jonah! We don't leave brothers exposed!"
Another stumbled.
"Step left, Mira! Watch your blindside!"
They bled. They fell. They rose again.
And Caelin did not slow.
Every flaw he saw, he corrected. Every break in the line, he mended. Every cry of fear, he silenced with presence and pressure—leading from the front, dragging them into shape by the sheer will of his conviction.
They ran the simulation three more times.
By the fourth, their shields struck in unison.
Their war cries no longer scattered but thundered as one.
They held the line.
And won.
The last Templari knight fell to a combined strike—two swords pinning it down, a third severing its head.
The chamber went silent again.
Caelin stood in the middle of it all, breathing heavy, bloodless cuts along his face from stray hits. His armor steamed. His shield arm trembled. But he didn't fall.
He looked around at the Forsaken—his brothers and sisters.
No longer outcasts in their eyes.
Not yet perfect.
But no longer what they were.
He sheathed his sword.
"You're beginning to understand." His voice was hoarse. "Not what it means to fight. But what it means to fight for each other."
Silence.
Then a voice from the back. "Sir… are we done?"
Caelin looked at him—exhausted, sweat-streaked, wide-eyed.
"...Yes."
Half of them collapsed where they stood. Others simply sank to their knees, breathing hard, arms limp with exhaustion. Caelin took a long breath and turned away, the Lion of Judah gleaming faintly on his breastplate beneath the flickering chamber lights.
They needed more training and only one day remained.