Date: February 16, 542 since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Morning at the "Lonely Peak" fortress was quiet and piercingly cold. The cloudless sky seemed carved from a single piece of bluish ice. In the center of the main courtyard, on a specially erected stone platform, seven bodies lay in a row. They wore no armor — only the clean gray shrouds of the Order, fastened over the chest with iron seals. This was an ancient law: a knight leaves the world as he entered it — without the weight of steel, leaving it for those who continue to stand guard.
Around the platform, the entire garrison of the citadel stood frozen. Hundreds of people in gray cloaks stood shoulder to shoulder, and over the square hung the heavy aroma of ritual herbs and burnt juniper. The Order's tradition demanded silence, but this silence was filled with such tension that it seemed the very walls of the fortress might soon give way and crack.
Kaedan stood in the front row of the survivors. His silver Armor was only partially manifested — just the breastplate and greaves — but even so, he drew the attention of all present. The youth stared at Soren's shroud. Just days ago, he had been a living man with his dreams of fixing a roof and a letter to his daughters in his pocket. Now Soren was just an immobile contour beneath the coarse fabric.
"The world didn't become better because we survived," Kaedan thought, his inner essence pulsing painfully, mirroring his state. "We brought seven deaths and two new forms of power into this home. But can power fill the void in the hearts of their loved ones? I became a Pillar, I can withstand a Harbinger's blow... but I cannot return a father to his children, nor a husband to his wife."
The youth felt the cold of the tiles penetrating through his greaves, reaching his very bones. Iskon stood beside him. His face, illuminated by the pale winter sun, seemed carved from marble. The amber sparks in his eyes were dimmed; he stared straight ahead, unblinking, as if trying to see something beyond the boundary of life and death. Iskon showed no emotion, but the density of his presence was such that the knights standing behind him involuntarily stepped back half a pace, feeling the invisible pressure of his new rank.
Elwin and Liana stood on Kaedan's other side. Elwin closed his eyes — for him, this ceremony was unbearable. His Spirit of Memory replayed again and again the moments when these seven had still laughed, when they had eaten at the same table. For him, they were not shadows under shrouds; they were alive, and this duality of perception was tearing his Vessel apart.
Suddenly, the tolling of the bell ceased, and a figure appeared on the balcony of the gatehouse. It was Adept Oldrik, the head of the "Lonely Peak" fortress. His presence as an Adept felt like a heavy mountain slab covering the entire square. Oldrik was old, his face covered in deep scars from the claws of corrupted creatures, and in his gaze lay the wisdom of a man who had seen the birth and death of hundreds of such squads.
He slowly descended the steps to the platform. Each of his steps echoed in the souls of the knights with a low, vibrating hum. Oldrik wore no helmet; his gray hair blew in the wind, and in his hands he held a ritual torch, its flame bearing a strange, greenish hue — the Order's Purifying Flame.
The Adept stopped before the bodies of the fallen. He was silent for a long time, gazing at the rows of the thirteen surviving knights. In his eyes was not the cold calculation of power, only deep, almost paternal sympathy.
"Seven brothers," Oldrik's voice, amplified by his incredible power, carried throughout the citadel, penetrating every cell. "Seven warriors of Order, whose path was cut short in the shadows of the past. We call ourselves defenders; we build walls and sharpen swords, but sometimes even the strongest steel is not enough to hold onto life."
He brought the torch to the first bowl of flammable mixture at the base of the platform. Green flame leaped upward, enveloping the bodies in a soft, ethereal light. "They did not die in vain. Their sacrifice allowed the Seventh Squad to return. Their blood became the mortar that cemented our new support. Order will not forget their names. Order will take their essence back into the bosom of the earth."
Oldrik turned to Kaedan and Iskon. His gaze became sharp as a blade. "Kaedan. Iskon. Step forward."
The youths obeyed; their steps on the stone slabs sounded especially distinct in the ensuing silence. They stood before the Adept, feeling his colossal power pressing against their Vessels, testing their strength. Oldrik studied for a long time the silver gleam of Kaedan's Armor and the amber depth of Iskon's eyes.
"You have returned different," the Adept said quietly, and this time his words were meant only for the two of them. "The Pillar rank at your age is a rare gift and an even rarer curse. The Temple of True Balance has left its mark upon you, and I see your inner essence has qualitatively changed. You have become stronger than many veterans of this fortress."
Oldrik placed his heavy hands on the youths' shoulders. Kaedan felt a wave of incredibly dense power pass through his breastplate, momentarily soothing his tormented Vessel. "I share your grief. The loss of comrades is a wound that never fully heals; it only scabs over with duty. But I also congratulate you on your newfound strength."
The fortress head squeezed their shoulders a little tighter. "But remember: the Pillar rank does not grant you the right to pride. It places upon you the obligation to become better. Your power now belongs not only to you; it belongs to every knight standing behind you. Grow stronger. Burn out your weakness every day. Do this so that on the next mission, you do not have to stand before seven shrouds. Be the shield that does not crack, and the sword that does not miss. Protect your comrades as if their lives were your own."
Kaedan raised his gaze to the Adept. In the youth's eyes, the steely glint mixed with new, deep resolve. Oldrik's words struck home, transforming his grief into fuel for further growth. "We will not fail, Lord Adept," Kaedan answered firmly.
Iskon merely gave a short nod; his face remained impassive, but deep within the amber nebulae of his pupils, agreement flared. He was already beginning to analyze Oldrik's words, integrating them into his vision of the ideal warrior.
The ceremony continued. The green flame slowly consumed the shrouds, carrying the souls of the fallen to the mountain peaks. The thirteen surviving knights stood in the honor guard until sunset. This day marked the end of their campaign, but also the beginning of their new lives as Pillars. They had received recognition from the Order's highest ranks, but the true price of this recognition they were only beginning to understand. Ahead lay new missions, more dangerous enemies, and an endless path to the peaks of power, on which the seven fallen brothers would forever remain their silent companions.