From afar, the tower of the former Royal Palace gleamed much as the crown jewels of the Empire. Atop the tower waved the banner with the Golden Gavel, a reminder to the citizens of the Citadel of who was in charge. The flag was one of the largest ever created - The council had pushed the project through, even though the emperor had his doubts. A firm hand would mean firm control, so the saying in the halls of the bureaucracy went.

It was Sanctullator’s task to keep that banner hoisted high. The medallions on his dark blue uniform gleamed even as the rains fell. It was a late winter’s afternoon; snow had turned to rain once again, a small glimmer of spring in the darkness of winter. Sanctullator held onto his bearded chin with a single hand, as he paced up and down a field outside of the Citadel’s defences. Before him on the military field, some of the finest soldiers in all of Justitia were gathered, standing astute with a salute held strong.

“Everything is in order, right...”

There was no room for error, as even the smallest of infractions meant the world. The men in this army had come from all over, and they had put their full trust in Sanctullator as usual. His reputation stretched far, but what takes years to build takes only seconds to be destroyed. Should they fail and fall victims at the hands of the cult, surely it would mean the end of his career, and worse. So onwards he paced for many minutes more, searching for imperfections on weapons, or dents in armor.

“Well then, you certainly look as spectacular as you always do, men!” spoke the cheery voice of the older general as he came around. Gallie had elected to pace around the whole army, complimenting the troops all the way. “Stefan, I’d say we have ourselves a victory on our hands here. We have the finest lads in the empire with us!”

Under his hand, Sanctullator bit onto his lips. “Please, leave your optimism for later. Tempting fate isn’t a good idea, is it?” Ugh, wonderful. Disrespect in front of the elites. As if this old rag of a man hadn’t embarrassed me enough already, he finds a way to twist that knife just that little bit deeper.

Gallie straightened out his uniform, and cleared his weary throat. “Ahem. Why of course I am not tempting fate. I merely have high hopes. You and I know how these men fight, they themselves do as well. They have brought back victory after victory for the truth and nothing but the truth, vanquishing the evil of liars as many generations prior have done. Some of them are even veterans of the initial liberation of Lokahn from the dragon cult, and they are as prepared as ever to rid it of evil permanently. There is nothing to fear here.”

Sanctullator kept an eye on his men, who only stared forward with statue-esque gazes. Some followed the conversation; others had lost interest a long time ago. The many years of listening to tired old bureaucrats and generals much like Philip Gallie had done a number on their patience. No one but the most stubborn and timid would stick to the tradition, and Sanctullator knew that well enough. His aged rival however, had fallen behind with the times.

Sanctullator clasped his hands together, and called for everyone’s attention.

“Let’s cut to the chase, here. Men, you’ve been briefed on this before, but I’ll repeat: You’ll be facing some of the worst threats to king and country out there. Do not underestimate them, and do not needlessly spill your lives if there’s nothing to be gained from it. If Whitestream falls, any attack would be pointless. Anyway, you know the drill. Clear the eastern bank of the Steyer. Afterward, if Whitesteam has not fallen, relieve Whitestream. If it has, hold the east bank. That’s all. Are we all prepared?”

“Yes sir!” they all shouted, in voices of uneven quality. When wars are raging, there’s little time to teach warriors the intricacies of the spoken word. Thus, broken Justitian was a fact of life. Sanctullator had heard his mother tongue butchered in far too many ways to remember over the years, it was almost funny. Almost.

Who knew that a simple ‘yes sir’ could cause so much trouble. “Well then, captain. You know what to do, I take it?”

“Yes sir!” the captain yelled, “Everything in order sir!”

Sanctullator pulled up his shoulders. “Well then, I see no reason to delay you any further. I’d prefer finishing this whole mess as quickly as possible, and I’m certain you wish to be home as soon as possible. Off with you lot.”

With their spotless muskets in hand, and the sweat wiped from their brow, the Elites got a move on, marching in perfect rows of eight down the road leading westwards from the Citadel, towards Autokratorberg. Once there, they would set out west, beyond the Central Foothills and towards the banks of the Steyer. These were the best of the best; Sanctullator saluted as all from the lightweight infantry to the heaviest of armoured knights passed by.

Their chain-linked armour rattling, and their spirits held high, the men of the Elites began singing marching songs celebrating Justitia, and the wonders of camaraderie with one another. Even as they vanished behind the cover of the tree line, the cheery echo of their voices rang loud and clear. No matter the fog nor the rain, Justitia never falters.

“How wonderful,” Sanctullator muttered to himself. But although he wished to enjoy the sound of the voices for as long as he could hear them, it was cut short by counterpart wandering across the grass.

“Well, there’s no turning back now, is there?” Gallie said.

Sanctullator scoffed. “And? Don’t pretend as if you wouldn’t be the first one to call me a coward and a traitor if I called them back, Philip.”

Gallie smiled. “Sharp as ever, I see. I suppose I would. Maybe not. The council wasn’t shy about voicing their frustrations when I went back to the core. Some of the bureaucrats are risking their careers over their optimism for this rebellion being put down.”

“Their loss,” Sanctullator said. “If some bureacrats’ pockets will dry up, that’s not my problem.”

“And what if they try to drag you down with them?”

Sanctullator turned his head. “Some heads are gonna roll if they try. I have some tricks up my sleeve, as always. If they have it in their right minds to try and accuse me of incompetence after all the fighting and struggling I’ve done with them to get some of the Elites over here… trust me, the emperor’s old heart probably couldn’t handle it.”

Gallie laid a hand over his mustache. “Bold, I do say. But whether your plans will actually play out the way you want them to is another matter. You’re a general, not a bureaucrat. I wouldn’t bet the odds on you surviving a political debacle like that.”

“I’ve gotten through worse.”

“If you say so. Then again, it depends. Maybe this is all a waste of time, and the Elites will do as stellar of a job as ever.”

“We’ll see. We’ll see.”

* * *

From the top of the mountain ring, the cold ran down the slopes and into the valley with its little villages. A claw gripped onto a rocky outcrop, throwing a handful of pebbles loose. On their way down, the pebbles kicked up a wave of dust with their weight, which kept them company on the way down. They clattered against rock walls, finding their way into a small ditch. The dragon that had knocked them loose was ambivalent, watching as the valley remained ever so quiet in the still of the night.

“Well, Merahn? Do you like our new home?”

The grey dragoness turned her head away from the valley, back to her companion resting under a rocky outcrop. Beside her lay the corpse of a Dweller, its three hollow eyes staring up at the moonlit sky. The chest had been clawed open; the white dragoness licked at her bloody lips in a careless manner.

“Of course. The jewel in the crown of our realm to be. Small enough to govern, but large enough to serve as a home for our kind. Calm, with subjects waiting to be ruled over by the rightful hand of Divinity once again. What more is there to say?” Merahn held her head high.

A devilish grin worked its way up Veraede’s snout. Still the dweller’s blood dripped down her chin, onto the dirt at her talons. “What a wonderful time to be a Draconist. We have declared war against hypocrisy and heathenry, and now we establish a home for our kind. I have dreamed of this day for many, many years. Every damned day in that cramped cave, feeling the hatred boil in my veins… it was pure agony, Merahn. Agony!”

The white dragoness bared her teeth with a growl. Merahn grinned back. “Easy now, sister. The work has only begun. Do not let your pain consume you. Let it fuel you, as it does me. Everything I have ever loved, my family, my people, the love of my life, it all has been torn away from me. But there is no time for tears, and no time for anger. Although I wish to roar and rip my way through the monsters who did this to me… I, no we cannot. Not while the Lokahnian people, the faithful folk of Divinity suffer under the boot of that decrepit empire.”

Still growling, Veraede buried her teeth back under her lips. “I understand, of course. It is only through the perseverance of you and the others that I have not lost my mind yet.”

“But of course,” Merahn replied. “It will still be some time before the rest gets here. We cannot do things faster, sister. But have no fear. In a few days, we will be heading into the valley, and we will snuff out the flame of the empire, as Divinity itself wishes.”

With a grin of her own, Merahn turned her head back towards the valley. The silhouette of a small fortress was laid bare by the light of the moon, the flag on its tower and the towers beside it hanging loosely off of their poles. It was this fortress which would be the first step; whether it would hoist the banner of Lokahn, or be reduced to naught but a grey remainder of what savagery was to play out on its grounds, it had been chosen as the first target of the Hallowed Army. Now well over sixty dragons strong, they were hungry for the battle to end all battles, and by the grace of their god, they were going to get it.

* * *

Far to the west, in a dark maze not yet discovered by human eyes, two young dragons wandered through the pale, slushy grounds, desperately trying to keep up with the dragons ahead. Their feet were sore, their wings were being torn at by wild winds, and their souls grew ever more dim. Neither knew where they were going, and what was going to happen once they had reached the end of the long trail.

Chalroth held a wing over his younger counterpart. The stranger which had been introduced so suddenly a few weeks earlier. He was unlike any other dragon Chalroth had ever seen: Timid, withdrawn, too weak to do more than sleep and nibble on slight bits of food… he was the first one brought into the Hallowed Army after their break with the Home Front.

Then, the younger one tripped. With a yelp, his face had been planted into the snow. The young one groaned wearily.

“h-Hey, get up!” Chalroth prodded and poked at the young one’s hide.

“s-Sorry...” the young one muttered, with as much strength as could be seen in his shivering limbs as he attempted to stand back up.

Chalroth’s ears perked up in surprise. “You talked!” he said. The young one’s lips sealed shut with a nervous hum. “It’s okay… I’m not out to hurt you, or anything...” Chalroth looked at the young one’s front leg. He had made it out with a mere scratch, fortunately. “We need to keep moving, before we get lost...”

“But we’ve been lost for hours...” the young one whispered. “I’m tired, I want to sleep...”

The green dragon nudged the young one with his wing. “We can’t loiter here, we need to keep following them, we’ll freeze to death out here if we don’t.”

The young one whimpered. “I don’t want to die...”

Chalroth shivered. “Come, I’ll protect you… once we can find our way back to Westedge, we will go home, okay?”

“y-Yes...”

And so, the two young dragons wandered on, lest they fall victim to the wrath of their peers or the wilds, through the lonely woodlands for many fields more, a prayer nestled deep in their hearts pleading for it to end. But alas, it never ended so easily.