The last rays of sun broke through the temple's narrow windows, staining the stone floor in crimson stripes. Fire roared in the hearth, devouring wood with the greed of a starving beast, but cold still clung to the walls, seeped through cracks, settled on the vaults as frost. Twelve torches burnt in the stone hands of deities hewn from local grey granite—one for each of the Gods. Tongues of flame danced, casting trembling shadows across stern visages, as though animating the ancient protectors of all sentient beings.

  At the altar's foot knelt a knight.

  Plate armour covered him from head to toe—heavy harness, polished to a shine, with engraving on the pauldrons and breastplate. Family symbols interwove with prayer inscriptions and order vows, forming an intricate pattern that seemed alive in the torchlight. His helm lay nearby on the stone slabs, his sword in its scabbard rested at his hip, the grip wrapped with leather straps darkened by sweat and time.

  The warrior's lips moved soundlessly. His head was bowed. His hands, encased in gauntlets, were folded before his chest. His posture was flawless—back straight, knees pressed into the cold stone without tremor, without sign of weakness. The prayer lasted long. The fire in the hearth had burnt down halfway.

  Finally the knight rose. Plate clanged against plate, the sound echoing through the empty temple. He reached for his helm but didn't don it—held it tucked under his arm, freeing his hands.

  From behind a pillar emerged a priest. A man in his prime, in a simple cassock belted with rope. Grey had barely touched his temples, but lines already radiated from the corners of his eyes. These were traces more of frequent smiles than heavy thoughts.

  "Still in iron, Thorgrim?"

  The knight turned. He smirked at the corner of his mouth.

  "Father Werden."

  "Not even removing it here. I look at you and wonder—how did you manage to father children on my sister? In armour?"

  Thorgrim snorted, adjusted the belt at his waist.

  "It's all in the technique, not the clothing."

  "Technique, you say." Werden stepped closer, clapped his friend on the pauldron—metal clanged under his palm. "Poor Hilda. Probably still nursing bruises."

  "There've been no complaints."

  "Because she loves you. But I wonder—how do you even kneel in this? Haven't the joints rusted yet?"

  The knight shrugged, the weight of his plate shifting with the familiar light scrape.

  "A good priest praises his flock for their zeal, Father Werden, not mocks them."

  "A good priest cares for his flock's spiritual health." Werden crossed his arms on his chest, tilted his head. "But I'm failing to keep up with their physical health when my brother-in-law transforms into a walking monument to duty."

  Thorgrim turned to the statues, looked at the Twelve. The torches burnt as brightly as though just lit. Their light always calmed him.

  "They left me in charge of Aksu. I can't allow myself to relax."

  "Not even in the temple?"

  "Especially in the temple." His voice hardened. "You know as well as I why we're here. And people are watching. Seeing. Remembering. If their commander removes his armour—it means they can relax too. If their commander relaxes—it means there's no danger and they needn't even exert themselves."

  Werden sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  "Is there danger?"

  Thorgrim didn't answer immediately. He looked at the window, where the last ray of sun trembled at the edge of the opening.

  "There always is."

  They moved towards the temple's centre, where between rows of columns rose the Reincarnation Stele. The ancient stone, covered in writings in a dead language, glowed with a dim silvery radiance—barely visible in the half-light but constant, unquenchable. Round the stele, equidistant from one another, stood frozen two knights in full battle harness.

  Swords drawn, blades pointed forwards. Their stance was flawless—feet shoulder-width apart, backs straight, gazes fixed on the emptiness before them. Even their breathing seemed synchronised, measured, as though marking the beats of an invisible pendulum.

  Thorgrim stopped two paces from the nearest. He surveyed the armour—not a speck, not a scratch. Straps tightened properly, buckles gleaming. The second knight stood just as immaculately; the sword in his hands didn't tremble, though the guard change should begin in about ten minutes, meaning he'd been standing thus as long as Thorgrim himself had been praying.

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  "Well done."

  The word came out short, approving. The knights didn't stir, didn't blink—guard regulations forbade reacting to extraneous sounds. Thorgrim nodded, turned on his heels. Plate clanged.

  "Come, Father Werden."

  They emerged through the main portal—massive oak doors, bound with iron, swung open with a drawn-out creak. Cold evening air struck their faces, brought the smell of smoke, roasting meat and horse dung.

  The square before the temple had transformed into a military camp.

  Tents loomed everywhere—grey, brown, here and there patched with multicoloured scraps. Fires burnt between the shelters, casting orange reflections on canvas walls. Fighters bustled about—some hauled bundles of firewood, others cleaned weapons, still others simply sat by the fires swapping tales, their voices merging into a general hum.

  Thorgrim stopped on the top step, swept his gaze across the camp. His jaw clenched.

  "Look at this."

  Werden closed his eyes, sighed.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Three months, Father. Three months my men have been stuck here, nailed down." The knight's voice grew harsher, words coming in sharp bursts. "I'd send them on patrols. Let them control the village, comb the surroundings, check the roads, keep themselves sharp. Otherwise they've grown completely idle—sitting, eating, sleeping. Soon they'll forget how to hold a sword."

  Thorgrim was categorical with his men. Probably precisely therefore they still maintained discipline—the half-centurion gave them no slack, despite the circumstances.

  "The agreement with Kaisar..."

  "I know about the agreement!" Thorgrim waved his hand, his gauntleted fist cleaving the air. "The basy of Aksu graciously permitted us to stand here, guard the temple and you. But beyond the square—not a step. Fifty warriors, locked in a cage."

  Werden placed his hand on his friend's shoulder—there, where the pauldron joined the cuirass.

  "Kaisar is wary. This is his land, his people."

  "Half a year ago, when the entire Lance stood here, we should have shown strength!" Thorgrim shook off the priest's palm, wheeled to face him. His eyes burnt. "And what did we do? Retreated, coiled up, tucked our tails."

  "Don't start, Thorgrim..." They'd been having this argument for the past ten days and Werden partly understood his friend, but still saw everything in a different light.

  "They're our fellow believers! Live beneath the Twelve's protection, attend the temple. But the inhabitants still look at us like outsiders, and we endure it! Are forced to endure it."

  Werden shook his head, the lines round his eyes deepening.

  "The inhabitants of Aksu are under the Twelve's protection, that's true. Precisely therefore it's unseemly to deal with them by force." His voice became quieter, softer. "Faith unites, it doesn't divide like a sword's blow."

  Thorgrim turned away, spat over the steps.

  "Faith. Agreements." A pause. "And what's the use?"

  Thorgrim smirked—a crooked, harsh smirk that stretched his lips but didn't touch his eyes.

  "These Torks only know how to worship their sky." The words flew out sharply, with contempt. "They're not true believers. Merely pretend heretics."

  Werden winced, ran his palm down his face.

  "Many of them are indeed in error, that's true." The priest's voice grew quieter, took on admonishing notes. "But by sky they mean the entire pantheon of the Twelve as a whole, not singling out any god separately. For them it's all one. For now."

  "You deceive yourself." Thorgrim wheeled sharply, plate clanging. "They hear what they want to hear. But the gods demand clarity, clear dedication. Don't muddy the waters, Father Werden—this flexibility in faith comes not from humility but from laziness of spirit."

  The priest straightened, crossed his arms on his chest. The smile left his face.

  "Your order's Lance didn't show strength not because it pitied the inhabitants." The words became weightier, each settling like stone. "But because it pitied itself. When you're politely asked to leave the aul—that's one thing. But when that same request comes from a mynbasy whose entire thousand stands arrayed behind him..." A pause. "That's quite another. What would you call such flexibility?"

  Thorgrim exhaled through his teeth, his jaw tensing.

  "Our order's Lance would have ground down even two thousand Torks." His voice rang with steel. "Though they were mainly orcs. We're tempered in battle, not in caravan raids."

  Werden fell silent, let the words hang in the air. Fires below crackled, threw sparks into the twilight. Somewhere cookware clattered, fighters laughed, a third of whom were orcs.

  "I won't speak for all Torks, but this particular thousand..." The priest spoke more calmly, almost gently. "Zhanbolat's Thousand... You know as well as I that it hunts constantly the ogre bands that come down to the valleys to plunder."

  Thorgrim jerked his shoulder but remained silent.

  "Every week his riders chase those creatures through the passes." Werden stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Cut down ten, twenty at a time. Sometimes more. Ogres pour in here in waves—devour livestock, burn homes, carry off people. And Zhanbolat stands between them and the aul. Has stood for fifteen years now, receiving reinforcements from the surrounding auls. And Kaisar served as his centurion."

  The knight clenched his fists—gauntleted fingers creaked.

  "So what? We've fought ogre bands too. More than once."

  "Fought," Werden nodded. "In full kit, with support, with siege weapons when needed. But the Torks ride out light—mount, sabre, bow and spear. No walls at their backs, no baggage trains. They live in the saddle for months, sleep on bare earth, eat what they hunt. And they beat the ogres."

  Thorgrim turned away, looked at the temple—torches in the windows blazed ever brighter as night fell.

  "Still heretics."

  "Perhaps." The priest shrugged. "But whilst your men warm themselves by fires and complain about idleness, Zhanbolat's Thousand still holds the line. Holds it with blood."

  Silence stretched, heavy as lead. Below someone barked a command, boots drummed on the frozen ground.

  Thorgrim wheeled, descended a couple of steps.

  "I'll go check the guard change."

  Werden watched him go, sighed quietly. Cold thickened, night crept over the aul, and he hadn't even noticed.

  Suddenly, inside the temple, metal rang out. Sharp, piercing, like an alarm bell. One blow, a second, a third. Sounds of combat tore through the oak doors, rolled across the square. Fires froze. Voices fell silent.

  Thorgrim wheeled before Werden could inhale. Plate clanged, his hand darted to his sword—the blade tore from its scabbard with a predatory hiss.

  "To arms! Everyone—to the temple! Seal the perimeter, let no one through!"

  The square exploded into movement. Fighters sprang from their places, metal roared, boots drummed on frozen ground. Thorgrim tore up the steps, not looking back—the sword's grip burnt his palm through the gauntlet.

  The portal burst open under his shoulder. Inside—chaos.