A Counsel for the Broken

Six years ago

FOLLOWING THE verdict of the god-king, Sirius and Lucien trudged behind Archcleric Mathias and the sanctum guards. The halls of the corridor stretched before them in solemn silence. Their gleaming walls reflected the unspoken burden that weighed on the troubled teens’ shoulders.

No answers, no justice, just a mission handed down as if it were nothing.

Like their sacrifice and suffering meant nothing.

They didn’t head into the dungeons again, but to another wing of the Chronalux Palace.

A royal blue carpet runner with gold fringes extended all the way down the hallway beneath tall, vaulted ceilings. Pointed arched windows and their traceries contained a white-stained glass of King Dajayatan’s golden heraldic emblem.

It had five triangular points in the shape of a lotus flower from the side, which then had a half almond-shaped stem pointing downward. This symbol was also reflected all the way down the hall onto the carpet runner.

Mechanical soldiers in white uniforms were performing their eternal patrols. Unlike the guards standing in front of the King’s Chamber with shakos, long frock coats, and muskets, these wind-up sabreurs possessed their own distinction. They wore shorter coats extending a bit past their waistlines, peaked caps on top of their faceless heads, and marched with sabers resting in the pocket of their shoulders. The King’s emblem on the front of their caps were chrome-plated, just like the layered pauldrons, bracers, and tips of their black boots. The palace seemed to hum faintly with the rhythm of their synchronized tourbillons. It was a pulse as precise and unyielding as the manatech they were. There was no falter in their posture or pace, as though the notion of error was stripped entirely from their clockwork design.

The god-king’s preference for these loyal constructs was absolute, as unwavering as their eternal pledge. They were components of a system perfected from the start of his reign at Throne’s Edge—a testament to order, discipline, and the imperceptible command of perfection.

The group soon reached the end of the corridor, and the sanctum guards uniformly halted before a tall set of gilded doors.

They shoved Sirius and Lucien forward, as if to remind them of their forsaken statuses. But Archcleric Mathias reminded the guards of theirs.

“Enough,” he ordered, his voice calm, but edged with reprimand. “They are under my charge now. Unshackle them immediately.”

The guards stiffened, abiding by his command.

And with a quiet motion of his hand, he dismissed the clockwork soldiers.

Their mechanical footsteps and armor faded down the corridor, leaving only the faint echo of their contempt.

He turned to the pair, his expression unknown from behind the mask as he gently spoke. “I apologize. You need not worry now, young brothers. Follow me.”

Sirius and Lucien quietly obeyed, their hearts settling down some.

They reentered the Sacrarium of the King, long cleared out since the last crusade. The air was still, faintly chilled. It echoed with the memory of dread, prayers, healing, and hope that had once filled its vaulted space. The black-and-white tiles underfoot gleamed faintly in the lanternlight, their mirrored sheen catching the silhouettes of the three figures.

They made their way into the center of the hall, where the white King statue stood tall. It was a crowned tower structure looming over them in firm judgment.

Archcleric Mathias gestured with his hand for them to sit. His movements were slow, reverent, as though the presence of the statue demanded humility. He also took his seat before them, humbled and empathetic. “I am sorry once more for the pain and for how they treated you, young brothers,” he said at last, his tone warm but heavy. “How are you feeling now?”

Sirius and Lucien exchanged uncertain glances. Words felt too small for what had happened to them since their return from the proving grounds. The former shrugged first, both of them unsure of what or how to feel.

“We’re… alright,” he finally uttered, his voice cracking through the empty chamber.

Lucien’s shoulders tense, his gaze fixated on the tiles. “Just trying to take it all in,” he added.

The archcleric gave a slow, knowing nod. “I see. I understand.” His voice sounded muffled with guilt behind the mask as he lowered his head, like he was going to start praying. “All I can say is that I know you are in a rough spot right now. That is why before I send you on your way, I want to take this time to ease any of your concerns about the journey ahead. Answer as many of your questions to the best of my knowledge… the Lachian Mountains can be a perilous trek.” His voice was determined, but even he had his limitations.

With that in mind, Sirius immediately went for that. “What can you tell us about them?”

“Yes, the Lachian Mountains,” he murmured. “Ancient origin of our people. I could sit here and revel in stories of the daily happenings. They were simpler times, that is for sure.” A faint light gathered in his right palm—mana forming a delicate, golden map that hovered just above his open hand.

The boys leaned closer, the glow illuminating their rugged faces.

“Besides serving as the cradle of Chesslandiya’s first civilization and housing God-King Dajayatan’s seat of power,” he explained, “these ruins still bear the bones of their former glory.”

The shimmering map pulsed faintly as he pointed out the route. “You will begin at the teleportation statue at the foot of the mountain in Quadcore Trivareth. It marks the safest entry point. From there, the path climbs past old landmarks—an amphitheater, a crowned spire that might still pierce through the canopy, and a grand archway that leads to the fabled Dais of Promotion itself.” He lowered his hand, the map solidifying into parchment that he neatly folded. “Each ruin you encounter,” he said, handing it to them, “is a fragment of a world that has long departed since the King’s Descent. Yet time does not claim what the divine still remembers. As long as you start where I directed you, I am confident you will find your way.”

The boys skimmed the map; although it wasn’t as detailed as they liked, it provided key visuals to look out for.

“If it were up to me,” Archcleric Mathias continued, voice heavy with something unspoken, “I would send escorts to help guide your journey. But it is the will of our God-King that you travel alone. Each step you take must be guided by faith—by the yearning to redeem yourselves and receive His blessings. That is why you must go alone.”

Lucien nodded solemnly, but his voice betrayed the fear he tried to bury. “What dangers should we expect?”

His words turned grim. “The soul feeders are always a constant threat,” he admitted. “They will linger everywhere, which is why you must remain vigilant. Especially since you are still Pawns and have no capacity for growth, there is no telling how malicious they can get. But…” His tone softened again. “I have faith that when you two stand together, you will prevail. Your actions in the crusade demonstrated this.”

Sirius was quiet for a moment after, then asked, “And if we… still have black marks when we return?”

A shadow seemed to pass over the clergyman’s mask. He sighed through his nose, folding his hands in his lap. “I do not know what His Holiness will think of it,” he replied honestly. “But it is best not to dwell on those thoughts. Fear can shape fate, and doubt may fulfill the very curse you seek to undo.”

The boys exchanged a wary glance, as the chamber seemed to close in around them. Faint humming of distant mana lines resonated through the stone like a heartbeat.

Lucien spoke next, his voice quieter. “What about our families? Our friends? What will they think of us?”

He hesitated for a moment before answering. “I… do not know how they will take it.” Sorrow colored his tone. “Your friends may feel gratitude for rescuing them, but there is also a chance they will resent you—for surviving when others did not. You must be prepared for that burden.”

Sirius frowned, the question trembling out of him before he could stop it. “How do we even begin to process that, archcleric?”

He regarded them for a long moment, his kindness extending into their hearts. “You begin,” he said softly, “by not letting pain become the only thing that defines you. Let your guilt be a compass, not an anchor. You will find your path—though not without scars.” He glanced up at the looming statue above.

Its towering majesty glimmered faintly in the lanternlight.

“Every redemption begins in darkness,” he whispered, almost to himself. “But even in the shadows, there is enough light to see the next step.” After returning to face Sirius and Lucien, he added, “His Holiness has already declared this to be the last crusade. Pilgrims will now only make the journey here to be promoted.”

The boys’ eyes widened. Several questions stirred within them about how future promotion ceremonies would take place.

“I know what you are thinking,” he answered perceptively, “but you need not worry about the details. You have a tall order on your hands now, but I trust, as surely as the mana flows within our souls, that you will find your way through whatever darkness lies ahead. No matter how bleak, how uncertain things get on your journey, you will make it through. You must believe in that. Not just for our God-King, but for yourselves. Believe.”

His words held little guidance, only a gentle urging to find the silver lining. But Sirius and Lucien had no choice but to cling to it, the only drive they had to steady themselves in this uncertain time. Because beneath Archcleric Mathias’s calm, lingered something unsaid. It was a silence that pressed heavier than his words.

What awaited the boys was a quiet prophecy etched in the space between hope and despair.