The chapel is a small thing, dark even during the day. Its position deep within Fort Rime ensures it sees very little of the brief northern sunlight. A squat building, constructed with uniform stone blocks, it does not look much like a chapel to the Goddess at all. Tucked away as it is in the corner of the keep, it seems it was almost an afterthought conceived of by the minds of overworked architects with much more practical concerns – it is no coincidence that the position of the small stone building reinforces the structural integrity of both the curtain walls it touches.

Within the chapel today, as most days, a women kneels before the stained glass mural of the Goddess Seriah. The woman is beautiful by most standards with her red shoulder length hair and her piercing blue eyes, currently closed in prayer. Her skin is pale and unblemished and her proportions are modest but womanly – though that latter bit is hard to tell through the heavy plate armor she wears. The woman, though beautiful, is obviously a warrior and her armor – made from blessed adamantite and melded with thin strips of viltinium – shines a brilliant silver, even in the gloom of the chapel. In front of her, laid with reverence before the Goddess, is her sword Gorfane – the word for “light” in the ancient language of the Celestials – gifted to her long ago for her distinguished service. Indeed, her pure white wings betray her to be a member of a Celestial Chorus.

She has been here nearly forty five minutes and she will be here fifteen minutes more. An hours devotion – each and every day – since she arrived in Fort Rime three years ago. Before Fort Rime it was Steele Point, and before Steele Point it was The Fringe – her dedication to her prayers is the stuff of legend, the only days she misses are the days the fighting is too fierce to spare even an hour. Which is not surprising, maybe, when you consider the deep blue color of her tabard – a color she has worn for as long as any human has known her; the color of The Penitent. The Penitent are Celestials of the Chorus who have sinned and must atone – though in truth that fact in not widely known. Certainly none of the men of Fort Rime regard her as a sinner, she who is always first afield and last to withdraw – The Blademaster they call her with the same hushed and reverent tones they might reserve for the Hero.

And today, as all other days, that hour draws to a close. With a smooth movement that speaks of unfathomable physical mastery, The Blademaster rises to her feet. Gorfane rises behind her and slips itself into the hide loop that protrudes from her belt for just this purpose. Wordlessly she turns and exits the chapel – continuing into the next part of her daily routine; taking to the walls of Fort Rime, patrolling for signs of the Unbound. Her route takes her through the fort, which is as always a bustling hive of activity as men and women hurry about trying to meet the unceasing demands of the foremost fort on The Frontline.

Grim faced laborers haul blocks of stone and carts of lumber to repair the damage wrought by the last nights battle. Priests of the human God of Battle Krin preform their last rites over the fallen. Scouts and hunters filter in from beyond the walls, bearing meat to feed the war machine. The loud clanging of hammer blows can be heard alongside the bellows of a half-dozen roaring forges in the Smithies – blacksmiths working to repair and create instruments of war. And everywhere there are soldiers – by and large grim and hollow eyed – men, and recently women, gathered from all over the Imperium to serve their mandatory five year conscription. And in one corner of the fort there is even a small encampment made up from The Tribe of Grass and Stalks, beastkin with rabbit-like features.

The Blademaster has fought on the Frontline for as long as any human being can remember – in fact her banishment to this corner of Suprema was nearly two hundred years ago. When the Chorus was finally pressured into sending some token reinforcement against The Encroachment before it was even called as such. Her presence was inspiring – especially in those early days when the Unbound were beaten back with ease – a fearless and unfaltering Celestial warrior come from afar to lend her aid to the humans of The Imperium. Today it is moreso. As she goes about her patrol dozens of gazes follow her at any one moment, her reputation for bravery and unparalleled strength has only grown over the years – there are none on the Frontline who have not heard of her.

For the men and women on the Frontline she is a symbol of hope in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. The Unbound come endlessly, a little smarter, a little stronger, a little better with each passing year – engaging humanity in an endless and unwinnable war. But she is always there to meet them – stronger still – a beacon of courage for the flagging hearts of despairing conscripts and grizzled veterans alike. She bears their hopes and expectations stoically, her beautiful face is famously an expressionless mask.

Today as well she walks through the fort expressionlessly, only responding when directly called out to by the few with the authority or temerity to do so. She does not like being made spectacle of, of being forced to wear an ornamental winged visor instead of a proper full-face helm in the name of bolstering morale, but she understands the reasoning. And if baring her face to the masses on this daily patrol will make them fight a bit harder or longer or better – then it will be worth it. Though for her, who has lived more years than any human alive and many more besides, it is a tedious process with dubious benefits. She stops atop the eastern wall, looking down at the massive scar in the stone that was put there last night by the Unbound rime hounds.

The Unbound had launched a frontal assault at the gate – some fifty or so of them massing together in order to utilize their devastating magic to greater effect. And as she and the other defenders had met that charge, another fifty or so broke from the cover of the forest and attacked this east wall. A rudimentary tactic. But a tactic. Not something that would have happened fifty years ago. Or even twenty. The Unbound were undeniably getting smarter with time. The woman wonders how long her tenure at Fort Rime will be, if the Unbound continue in this direction? Steele Point had not even lasted a decade after her arrival and looking down at this mess it seems Fort Rime will fare little better.

That is the problem with these Forts that used to be protected by more forward locations in the Frontline, she muses, they are ill accustomed to the intensity of the fighting the foremost forts in the line experience and in some cases are more shoddily constructed – or constructed without proper care for local geography. Steele Point fell when the hill it sat atop was collapsed by magical sappers. For idiotic reasons like that the Frontline has shrunk – from around ninety forts and cities when she was first assigned here – to merely twelve, humanities final desperate line against the Encroachment. It is unpalatable, for the woman, to be forced into such a desperate and losing situation – hundreds of years of slowly giving ground to an implacable foe.

She is one the few with the power and skill to truly destroy the Unbound but she has not done so in decades. It's not worth the expenditure of energy when she will be needed to fight before she can recover from the effort. So it has been, the woman has fought a hopeless war alongside her human allies for centuries, striking down foes that rise anew by the hundreds of thousands in a futile show of resistance. And now there is talk that the Frontline will be abandoned entirely. It has become apparent that the Unbound need not cross the Frontline to strike at humanity, so fools wonder what purpose the line serves. But they would not wonder if they could see this sight the woman muses with a sneer.

It is easy for some bureaucrat in the capital to read the report “A hundred Unbound repulsed; no casualties” and think that the job they are doing could be just as easily handled by the wandering sellswords who call themselves 'adventurers' that have cropped up in recent years. Not understanding the effects of massing the Unbound, not grasping the danger of leaving them completely unchecked in the northlands, not seeing the truth staring them straight in their power-addled eyes. Not that worrying over it helps anything The Blademaster knows. She simply does her part – always the foremost in the fight against the Unbound, always the tip of the proverbial spear. That others might look to her back and strive to follow her example, that the humans of Fort Rime might feel some hope as they rail against the surely inevitable.

There is a whoosh of displaced air and another Celestial lands on the battlement alongside the Blademaster. The newcomer is a young man dressed in pure white robes. Her surprise at seeing him is plain on her face.

“Alaina.” He calls the Blademaster's name.

“...?”

“You are summoned. To report before the High Council before the moon completes another cycle.” His eyes soften as he speaks the next words. “You've been called home.”

“Now? Vin? Is it time?”

“That is what the council wants you to tell them I believe. As I understand it they've lost contact with one of their Sentinels two weeks back or so.” He replies gravely.

The Blademaster nods slowly, digesting the information. “T-then. I must prepare. And then I must set out immediately.”

“Yes. I will handle affairs here in your absence.”

“You, Vin? Surely the Chorus can spare-”

He waves her off. “It has been over a century since you last saw me fight Blademaster, I daresay I might be better than you now.” He gives a roguish smile.

“Haah, I doubt that. But I will trust in you this time I suppose…” Her voice peters out, wanting to stay and speak with the first friend she had made among the Celestials – a man he had not seen in many years. But duty called. “...Now excuse me I must make some preparations before setting out.”

“Understood.” All his levity disappears. “I will go speak with the commander of this fort and inform him of the change.”

“...Thank you, Vin.”

“Of course Alaina, good luck up there. May the fortunes of war be with you.” He sees her off with another smile.

And then the woman – Alaina – turns and leaves heading back to her room. She walks more quickly than normal, drawing concerned gazes from around the fort – people wondering what could make the Blademaster move with such haste. Well what aside from another attack. But Alaina, heedless of the small commotion she leaves in her wake, bee-lines back to her quarters. A small, undecorated room, its sole purpose obvious from the bed pressed against one wall. Aside the bed the room only contains a simple wooden wardrobe and a small stone basin filled with water. The walls are bare, except in the spot directly above the basin, there is a small glass mirror – a luxury here on the Frontline – something deemed necessary for her by the powers that be.

Alaina moves to the wardrobe, throwing it open as soon as she reaches it. Inside are her few worldly possessions – a few changes of clothes for various circumstances, rags and oils for cleaning and polishing her armor, and tucked into a corner a small wooden box. The box she retrieves and opens revealing a small ring of beaten gold. The band is simple but by contrast the crest is an incredibly complex engraving of a feathered wing – a million minute details carved by some master craftsman and imprinted with a magic to bypass certain wards – the signet signifies her status as an honorary citizen of the flying city of Hal'Trinneth and allows her entry.

Ring in hand Alaina releases a sigh and lets her body sag against the wall as her tension dissipates. How horrible it would be to finally be summoned back only to find she had lost her signet? An unrealistic nightmare scenario but one she was nonetheless glad to have avoided. After so many years of exile. They finally called her back. Turning to face herself in her mirror, she could feel a smile on her face. But seeing her own face in the mirror, her smile hardens. The reason for her summons is apparent with just a glace at the red slitted pupils staring back at her out of the mirror. Or the angry black scar that has appeared on her forehead – burning its way through all her layers of glamour – a scar shaped like a “V”.