Caelin's Office – Hours Later
The chamber was quiet save for the hum of the overhead lumen-strips. His armor—dented, scorched, and blood-smeared from the sim—rested on a rack by the wall. Caelin sat alone at his desk, stripped down to a black undershirt, fingers curled around a steaming cup of bitter blackleaf tea he hadn't touched.
Holograms of Templari House emblems floated above the desk. House Seraphim. House Aurum. House Phalanx. Veteran lines. Elite formations. Strategem overlays danced before his eyes—shock spearhead charges, four-man shield coils, precision crossfire patterns used by arc-bow units.
He studied in silence, jaw clenched.
They're faster.
Cleaner.
Trained from the day they could walk in perfect synchronization.
He closed one eye and rewound the war sim recordings—watching his own House Exodus struggle, fail, correct, learn. He tapped a flickering image, pausing on the moment they broke through the enemy line—not by superior strategy, but sheer stubborn force.
They weren't elegant.
But they were relentless.
A soft chime sounded. The door slid open.
"Your door was unlocked," came a familiar voice. Quiet. Feminine. Sister Evadine.
Caelin didn't turn.
"Most people knock," he muttered, still staring at the projected holograms.
"I'm not most people." She stepped inside, glancing once at the scattered datapads and flickering battle maps before her eyes settled on him. "You look like a man preparing to fight an entire war by himself."
He finally looked at her. "Maybe I am."
Evadine crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. "They say the simulations have run nonstop for hours. That you pushed them until some of them collapsed."
"They need to be better."
"They're human."
"So was Christ." His voice was low.
She didn't flinch.
Instead, she walked toward him, picked up one of the datapads, and turned it off. "And He rested."
Caelin leaned back, the lines under his eyes deep. "I don't have the luxury."
"No, you just refuse it."
They sat in the quiet hum of the chamber. Sister Evadine moved to the chair opposite him but didn't sit yet. Her eyes lingered on the armor against the wall, then back to Caelin.
"You're building something out of ashes," she said. "And they're following. Even when it hurts. Even when they fall. You're the first man some of them have believed in since they were cast out."
Caelin gave a humorless breath through his nose. "They shouldn't."
She arched a brow. "But they do."
Silence stretched. The only sound was the soft whir of the holo-projector shifting scenes—frozen images of their last failed formation mid-charge, one man exposed at the flank.
Evadine finally sat.
"I've been visiting the barracks between shifts," she said. "Listening. Watching." She leaned forward slightly. "They're bruised, sore, half-starved, and praying for another chance to prove themselves."
Caelin said nothing.
"And they're still here."
At last, he spoke. "They deserve better."
"Then give them better. But not at the cost of burning yourself alive to light their way."
He looked down at his tea, untouched.
She let the silence breathe before continuing, softer now. "I know what they say about your house. I've heard the names. 'Ashes in snow,' 'the broken legion,' 'the Pope's grave mistake.' But I've seen worse. And I've seen men rise from worse."
She rose, smoothing her robes. "You're not failing them, Caelin. Not yet. But they'll need more than punishment and perfection to survive what's coming. They'll need you whole."
She moved toward the door, then paused with one hand on the frame.
"I'll be back tomorrow," she said. "You won't call, but I'll come anyway."
He looked up at her. "Why?"
A small smile touched her lips. "Because like them… I still think there's something left in you worth fighting for."
The door slid shut behind her, leaving Caelin in the blue glow of enemy formations and the quiet hum of a house that the world had already given up on.
He exhaled slowly and reached for the simulation controls.
"Again," he muttered—this time to himself.
Then he reset the battlefield, and he did this until he fell asleep at his desk.
The holos had long since faded.
The war maps dimmed. The datapads scattered in quiet disarray. Caelin lay slumped forward at his desk, head resting on his folded arms, one gauntleted hand still gripping a stylus that had long ceased its purpose. The flickering light from the overhead lumen-circles cast long shadows across his face, outlining the hard angles carved deeper by exhaustion.
A soft knock—barely a whisper—echoed from the frame.
Then the door slid open.
Boots padded across the floor. Gentle, deliberate. The kind of steps taken by someone used to walking among the wounded.
"Caelin."
His brow twitched.
A hand touched his shoulder—soft, calloused from tending the broken.
"Caelin," Sister Evadine said again, voice a mixture of concern and amusement.
He stirred, eyes cracking open as the light cut through his haze. "How long…?"
"Long enough," she said. "You missed a comm from Vaelus. Twice."
He sat up slowly, stretching the stiffness from his neck with a wince. "Simulation?"
"Still logged. You passed out reviewing battle holos." She nodded toward the untouched tea, now cold. "I don't think you moved since I left."
He blinked away the fog in his mind. "I meant to—"
"I know what you meant to do." She offered a small smile. "You just forgot you were human again."
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "They can't afford for me to be human."
"You're not a god either."
She reached past him and tapped the panel, bringing up the holos again. Formations and kill ratios blinked to life. "You're a man who was asked to lead a house built from ash and exile. You're allowed to sleep."
Caelin looked at her. "Do they still talk?"
"About Exodus?" She nodded. "Endlessly. Some think you'll fail. Others are waiting for you to prove them wrong."
"And you?"
She tilted her head. "I think I keep showing up here for a reason."
They shared a quiet look.
Then Caelin sat up straighter, rubbing the fatigue from his eyes. "What did Vaelus want?"
She glanced toward the desk comm. "Didn't say. Just that when you woke up, you'd know what to do."
He leaned forward, the fire slowly kindling again in his gaze. "Then I'd better find out."
Caelin pulled on his tunic, flexing his stiff shoulders as the fatigue wore off like shedding armor. The last vestiges of sleep clung to him, but discipline had already taken hold again. The quiet hum of the office was broken only by Sister Evadine cleaning up his scattered datapads.
She paused at the door. "You'll need food soon. Real food. Not just bitter tea and fury."
He gave a faint grunt of acknowledgment. "Later."
She gave him a long look. "Don't burn out before the battle, Caelin."
And then she left, the door sliding shut behind her.
He turned back toward his desk—only for the comm to chime softly.
"Incoming clearance: High Command – Relay Sigil: Vaelus."
Caelin activated the audio only.
Vaelus' voice came through, crisp and confident. "Captain Caelin. I trust you haven't drowned yourself in war maps again."
Caelin raised an eyebrow. "No promises."
A low chuckle. "Good. Then listen carefully. I've sent a small contingent to assist your preparations—retired strategists and battle masons. They served under Houses like Phalanx and Aurum during the Fourth Purge. Some were old enemies. Now they want to see if what you're building is real."
Caelin leaned forward. "You trust them?"
"I trust what they've lost. None of them have titles. All of them have scars. They remember what it was like to be useful. And they volunteered."
Caelin paused, then nodded to no one. "Understood."
"One more thing," Vaelus added, his tone sharpening. "You're not alone, Caelin. Even ashes can smolder. See what happens when you stoke them."
The line cut.
Caelin stood in silence, gaze falling on the flickering emblem of House Exodus displayed above his desk: a black cross beneath a crown of thorns, surrounded by a jagged ring of fire.
He turned toward the door, voice steady.
"Let's begin."
The sound hit him first.
Not chaos. Not panic.
Discipline.
Caelin stepped into the war sim chamber, pausing just past the threshold. The lights were dimmed to a blood-orange hue, casting long shadows across the reinforced training floor. The projection walls shimmered with hard-light terrain—an exact recreation of a battle fought over a century ago, during the Purge of Velis Prime.
He recognized the terrain: jagged obsidian trenches, broken cathedral towers, blast-scarred statues of saints reduced to rubble. And within it, his Forsaken.
Not flailing.
Not stumbling.
Drilling.
Veterans in weathered training armor walked the lines—barked sharp commands, adjusted stances, corrected shield spacing. One elderly tactician, his left arm missing below the elbow, stood beside a floating map grid, outlining push-point tactics with brutal clarity.
"Two squads form the hammer. The third—you—you're the anvil. Let them break themselves against your wall. And when they do—you break them back."
House Exodus moved in organized clusters. Shields locked, swords held with proper angle and control. They weren't perfect. But they were coordinated. Focused. Earning every inch with sweat.
Caelin watched in silence, arms crossed.
A battle mason limped past him, heavy brace on one knee, calling orders through a vox-scarred voice. "Cut the leftward lean on your guard, boy—Templari spear drills'll find that gap and gut you."
A young Forsaken corrected immediately, face tight with determination.
Caelin finally stepped forward, voice low but firm. "Report."
The nearest tactician turned—a grey-bearded man with three campaign medals still sewn into a frayed tabard. "Captain. We're on our third sim today. Old Templari-on-Templari engagements. No demon horde nonsense. Just men against men. Steel against steel."
Another spoke, a tall woman with burn scars down her jaw: "Your lot's rough around the edges, but they listen. Most units don't. They will bleed for you. That's rare."
Caelin's gaze swept the chamber. His warriors—his—moved with purpose. Sweat dripped. Breath labored. But they held formation. They advanced together.
The tactician added, "They've got fight. You gave them direction. We're just sanding the rust off."
Caelin gave a slow nod. "Good."
He moved toward the raised observation platform and watched as the squads clashed with Templari projection knights in full combat gear. Sparks flew. One Forsaken was knocked flat—only to be pulled up by two others before the next blow could fall.
They weren't polished.
But they were no longer broken.
Caelin clenched his jaw, pride tempered by burden.
"Run it again," he said.
No one argued.
And the war raged once more. The simulation ran countless times— the number lost on them.
The enemy descended with the discipline of tradition. House Aurum's phalanx charged in gleaming formation—shields locked tight, spears bristling forward. House Seraphim's heavy infantry advanced behind, their warhammers raised, ready to crush shields and break lines. A formation honed over generations.
But House Exodus did not break.
They met the storm head-on.
Steel rang against steel in perfect synchrony—shields angled to deflect, blades swung with practiced precision. On the right flank, a cluster of Forsaken shifted like one body, intercepting the Aurum spears and forcing the attackers back a step. No hesitation. No wasted movement.
A battle mason called out from the command dais, "Left side—execute the shield-crush maneuver!"
Before his words were finished, two rows collapsed inward, while a third row stepped forward hammering the staggered Seraphim line with solid shield bashes. The Forsaken fought as one, a living weapon shaped by relentless discipline.
One of the older battle masons crossed his arms, watching intently. Another whispered, "That's Thalos' Hammer formation — modified."
The older one grunted. "No, it's something else. They're not copying. They're becoming."
Suddenly, the enemy shifted tactics—breaking formation and launching a fast, unexpected flank from the rear, aiming to cut off Exodus's line of retreat. The Forsaken spun in unison. Rear guard intercepting. Twelve soldiers moved in simultaneous arcs, intercepting the assault, locking shields, and forcing the enemy to recoil. The attack was crushed.
The chamber fell silent. Holo-enemies flickered and dissolved as the simulation ended. Exhausted, scorched, battered, House Exodus stood unbroken.
No orders. No cheers. They simply looked to Caelin. He stepped down from the platform, walking among them, past bloodied helms and battered shields. Not one soldier broke rank. Not one asked if they had done enough. They already knew.
The chamber was thick with sweat and exhaustion, but Caelin's gaze swept over the Forsaken standing firm—wounded but unyielding.
He cleared his throat, voice steady and authoritative. "You held your ground today. Not perfect. Not flawless. But you did not break. You adapted. You learned."
A few heads lifted higher. Eyes sharpened.
"This is what it means to fight as one—Exodus. To stand when others would fall."
He paused, scanning the ranks. "Remember this feeling. The weight of your armor. The burn in your muscles. The taste of sweat and steel."
His tone hardened. "Tomorrow, this will be tested for real."
Murmurs stirred among the men and women.
Caelin's voice rose, filling the chamber. "The mock battle against the Swords of Eden and their allies is not just a test. It's a message. We will show them who we are. That we are not failures. Not forgotten."
He nodded once, decisively. "Rest tonight. Heal where you can. Tomorrow, we fight for more than redemption. We fight for our name."
He turned toward the exit.
"Dismissed."
The Forsaken moved, fatigue heavy but resolve burning bright.
Caelin returned to his office, the echo of his own words still hanging in the air. His armor, battered but proud, leaned against the wall. He sank into his chair, fingers drumming on the desk.
The door slid open quietly.
"Sister Evadine," he said without turning.
She stepped inside, calm and steady as ever. "You made your voice heard."
He glanced up, meeting her steady gaze. "It was necessary."
She moved closer, folding her hands. "They'll need that strength. And so will you."
Caelin allowed a brief, tired nod. "Sometimes I wonder if it's enough."
She offered a small, knowing smile. "It never is. But it's all any of us have."
A moment passed, heavy with unspoken truths.
"I'll be watching," she said softly. "And I'll be here when you need to rest."
Caelin exhaled, the weight of command settling back onto his shoulders.
"Thank you, Sister."
She gave a faint nod and slipped out as quietly as she'd come, leaving the room in the muted glow of the holoscreens. Caelin wondered what she even saw in him, perhaps he would never know.