"That's it! Close the gate!" shouted the sentry. The large gates were laboriously sealed, then rocked, rocked by the tremors of marching on the other side. By then, all knights and guards had arrayed themselves along the battlements. And from there the black knight motivationally issued his orders, "Part yourselves in fives and no less. Cover as many crenels as our numbers may afford!"

Yet the marching grew louder, undeterred as it encroached upon their nerves. More and more, their defending numbers seemed diminutive in the face of this advancing army. But eventually, just off the precipice of the white wall, the marching stopped. The troop formations suddenly fell inanimate, the silence only broken by a passing breeze.

After a few moments laden with tension, a lone horseman advanced through the army ranks. This harbinger, hooded and cloaked in black, slowly rode toward the holy barrier, breaking his advance many yards from the base of the wall. For a moment, he stood silent, Prostrating and waiting for all to oblige their attention.

"Will you hold your ground before this host?" the lone rider thundered. "Does this stronghold stand resolute toward sacrifice, however hollow? Strong wills thou mayst display in the event of a siege, but survival is no stamp of the bold."

Before anyone else, the monastery's black-clad knight cried, "In the name of Ihirum, explain thine intent before this house and its keepers."

The dark rider's horse continued trampling the grass in uneasy strides. "Is that a Paladin who speaks?"

"Yay!"

"Then listen, warrior of holy cloth. You harbor warmongers, the servants of a lesser house who sought to depose Voracia's Archduke. Allegedly so in the name of Her Grace. A failed gambit in need of reckoning. Send them out so that we may know them and end this conflict without spilling more blood."

"Thy paroxysm is negated on this holy ground, thy query done."

"Lo! 'Tis justice we've wrought before thee. A just god, as thy priestesses claim to serve, would deliver this-"

"Do not stand there and act the divine orator!" cried another soul.

"Who speaks!" shouted the rider. "Make thyself known!"

And so, the monastery collective peered in every direction until Kalen stepped forward. He advanced down the wall's stone crowd, serving everyone's new point of focus, especially the black rider's. He stood a distinct white figure peering over the crenel. "I am but a humble cleric of the Ecclesia!" he answered.

"Do you represent this holy house? If so, take heart as a harbinger of mercy; deliver the few of our charge that the rest may slumber peacefully this night."

"Is it not a morbid revolution in which we reprise injury upon injury?" Kalen replied. "Now, being of the ilk devoted to reason and—as clerics are frequently inclined—morality, might it be daft to recommend we leave injuries as they have been sustained and venture beyond the realm of retribution this day?"

The listeners poured their undivided attention, the dark rider of suspect demeanor which some might consider serene curiosity. He patiently waited as Kalen continued.

"Though I cannot offer thee recompense for the previous transgressions, unto thee I may guarantee a bloody cycle. For as 'tis written in the Gratia Concordant, ''tis a heretical motion to defile His ground, a defiler thus branding himself enemy of The Faith.'"

"What are you implying, cleric?"

"No, not implying... Listen! 'Tis no implication but a guarantee that the Matriarch shall avenge this ground tenfold shouldst thou blaspheme upon it."

A drawn-out silence followed, a mysterious moment where Kalen had time to reflect on his sentence.

"What is your name?" inquired the horseman.

"I would know who you are!" Kalen authoritatively retorted.

"I am the messenger. We did not come this far for zealous rhetoric. Simply send us the trespassers and we shall retire."

"Had they not reached their salvation, their fates may have been deserved. But, thy failure to resolve this quarrel on the battlefield, as per Consortium law, has permanently rested them from thine hands. They now reside in Ihirum's. And as these men beside me have prevailed for generations, His will shall be done. 'Deliver the faithful and beat down the proud!'"

Decidedly disappointed, the shadowed rider laid his head low. On the walls, the rest of the Monastery's defenders internalized their praise, visibly inspired to remain steadfast.

"I suppose choices are best not taken for granted," said the rider. "And thou hath left but one." He lowered his hood, at last letting the defenders see his face. He was of tan, middle-aged complexion with black hair and cold green eyes; a scar hung below his left eye, slithering unto his cheek. "I see thy decision final, my efforts futile." He bowed with strange humility and rode away, his back to the monastery. "If only you knew!" he disclaimed one last time, disappearing into the deep sea of soldiers.

As both sides awaited a single sign of movement, the breeze returned with its ominous howl. Every soul bound to the monastery bore witness to the intense silence; the men on the walls watching, the people on the ground listening, and the holy brethren praying.

Suddenly, a drum beat - a cut cord of tension. Kalen watched as the entire mass stood to attention, levied their polearms, and rotated full ranks ninety degrees. Stunned, everyone watched as the army began a slow march northwest.

The collective stomp rumbled the entire countryside, columns of metal trudging away from the stone wall, yard by yard.

With distance, the tremors slowly died down, relieving everyone's anxiety as the mass retreated into the distant azure.

"They're leaving!"

The crowds of nobles, clergy, and knights breathed long sighs.

Aa sweeping wave of relief, the breath of the collective eventually erupted into a tumult of cheers that surpassed the volume of their previous revels. "Praise be to Ihirum!" exclaimed one passionate priestess, none other than Seren.

But in the case of some, primarily the men along the battlements, personal thanks was reserved for Kalen. Each of them reached out for intimate address.

Ironically, it was after the tension had passed that Kalen became speechless. Nothing but hesitation escaped his breath as seasoned knights walked up to him and gave hearty shakes of the wrist. However, his attention veered to the figure in black fast approaching. The stalwart man in armor was parting the crowd; unlike the others, he maintained an air of cordiality in his smirk. Kalen could actually glance his yellow teeth succeeding his earlier seriousness.

"You have delivered a triumph the likes of which many sovereign souls cannot claim in a lifetime!" the Paladin lauded, rigorously shaking Kalen's hand. At a perpetual loss for words, Kalen's speechlessness was of little consequence amidst their knightly company's loud cheers. "Haha!" he chortled. "Is it only in terrible circumstance you may breathe a word?"

"No..." replied Kalen. "No! This is a moment novel to my every experience." Even in responding, the glow in his eyes diminished as they automatically fixed on the northern cloud formation. Noticing this, the Paladin turned and cocked his eye at the dimming skies, too.

"Indeed," said the Paladin, returning with a grin. "A better moment for introductions. I am Hastings. Sir Hastings of The Paladins of Turen."

"I—I am Kalen of the clergy."

"Is that so?"

"A simple clerk raised by the clergy, to be precise."

"I see too much potential to reap for that to be so! Thy actions demand greater rewards...and standing." With every piece of praise, Kalen's expression grew more flabbergasted. Yet Hastings proceeded without interruption. "Aye, lads! I require witnesses for an initiation!" Promptly, several other Paladins arrived at Sir Hastings' beck and call, gathering around them. "Walk with me, clerk." And Hastings wrapped his arm around Kalen in a brotherly gesture, rendering obvious their close match in height.

They began down the courtyard, sauntering unimpeded past the noble crowd. It was as if Hastings radiated an aura that propelled all people away out of respect, and Kalen never shook the notion that this man was a veteran of wiles and war, his presence projecting beyond anyone else's.

"What are you devising, Sir Hastings?" enquired Kalen, inquisitively eyeing the paladins around them.

"You are young, yet a battle was won today without a drop of blood, and that is the true victory. Personally, I consider it the only form."

"That is an idyll notion. I agree with it, but I remain in the dark."

"We make for the sanctum, good clerk!"

"I was certain the day's festivities had concluded, considering..."

"To be resumed!" Stopping at the chapel doors, Hastings turned to a knight by the steps. "Sebastian," he greeted, "prepare Kalen here for the altar." Like the others, this Sir Sebastian wore glimmering armor, but he had a youthful countenance: short and parted blonde hair on a light face that seemingly popped out his suit. Hastings then rotated back. "Kalen, take after Sir Sebastian." Kalen didn't know how to reply, uncertain as he was about what came next.

Hastings situated himself just outside the chapel while Sir Sebastian escorted Kalen inward. "You will be taking a vow," the Paladin said in a soft voice. "It delineates negligibly from the vows of a cleric but entails an entirely different life. Understood?" Kalen jerked his gaze at Sebastian's seriousness, his mind finally sparked. "Did Sir Hastings not explain?"

"Does this vow entail its own duty?"

Sir Sebastian smirked. "When the moment arrives, turn thy cheek left if 'nay': if 'yay'... you understand." They had reached the altar, Sir Sebastian turning to face the doors and Kalen taking after him. Glancing at their back, Kalen once again found the spangled tapestry on which stood the star scepter.

After a long silence, they beheld Sir Hastings' approach alongside the same group of Paladins as before.

Considering the event at length, Kalen suddenly felt his head light and his balance unseemly. Am I being sworn as a Paladin? Looking around the room, he realized his answers may be evident in their uniform presence. Another fate awaited at the end of this occasion, yet despite the good fortune of the impending ceremony, an unwavering sensation boiled his insides.

***

Promptly, Hastings took his position on the other side of the tapestry table, opposite Kalen, and he was flanked by two other Paladins. It was not unlike the morning's event where the priest presided over the group of young squires. Now, Sir Hastings presided over him, and he was the uninitiated. How ironic, he thought. Puberty had been his detriment, a feature of time that stopped his pursuing the path of a knight. Yet here he stood, prepped on a squire's pedestal as if knighthood was a breath away.

Sir Sebastian took a spectator's place on the side, along with several more of their brethren. All knights arrayed thus complemented the mural surrounding them. Shining steel glimmering by the candle's reflection and glowing like the spangled cloth beneath Kalen's gaze. He truly appeared the star in the center of a constellation, a beacon to the covenant for which they stood. And so, with everyone in attendance, the initiation commenced. He would become a Paladin.

"We stand here to recognize the ascendancy of one Kalen, 'clerk' who demonstrated unwavering courage," announced Hastings. Steering his attention across the room, his eyes ultimately fell on Kalen's. "Worthy to us and, in time, worthy as a shepherd under Ihirum, to carry out His will."

Even at the inception of the honoring procession, Kalen's thoughts were overtaken by the sound of distant thunder, colluding with the dark clouds to dim his spirits.