A Shadowed Alliance

Approaching noon.

The sun in the Empire’s northern reaches offered no warmth; though the sky was clear and clouds sparse, the biting wind remained desolate.

It was not the season for farming, so most of Oliver Village’s residents had willingly come to attend the cremation ceremony.

The traditions of the Blazing Sun Sect somewhat overlapped with those of the Northmarch’s rural towns. Both mourning the deceased and cleansing sins were committed to a single flame, their ashes then scattered upon the earth, allowing their souls to return to nature.

Gwynevere stood by the burial grounds, watching as the squire-soldiers under the Templar Knights unearthed the bodies, identifying each one.

This task was a necessary precursor to the cremation.

The Salentz Diocese would soon learn that High Chantress Ellenore Perkin’s northbound contingent had been attacked. As a fellow devotee from the Salentz Diocese, Gwynevere needed to confirm each death before reporting back to Salentz. The families had a right to know the cause and outcome of this tragedy.

Yet, as each body was identified, Gwynevere found herself growing increasingly suspicious of the entire affair.

Those who accompanied Ellenore Perkin to the Northmarch were esteemed Prayer Priests and Battle Priests within the Church. The remaining squires and guards were also well-equipped.

Wandering Lesser Horned Beasts wouldn’t dare approach, and even a typical beast pack would hesitate before such a formidable force. A Horned Beast chieftain lacking tactical prowess posed no threat to them.

‘Could it have been a Beast Pack Lord?’

Gwynevere frowned slightly, her gaze drifting towards the distant Dunnau Mountains.

Beyond the silver-white peaks, the undead stirred. They had arrived with the Pope to guard against the Archlich’s invasion, never imagining that the depths of the Northmarch’s pine forests were already occupied by a hidden, massive beast pack.

The emergence of a Beast Pack Lord meant that scattered, independent beast packs would be united under its command, leading to organized assaults on human settlements.

The Northmarch was now fraught with peril. Yet, the Pope, who had proposed defending it, was nowhere to be found at this critical juncture. Suddenly, almost the entire burden fell upon Gwynevere.

An invisible mountain seemed to press heavily on her chest, nearly suffocating her.

In the past, she had merely executed orders, never questioning their rationale. Now, with the source of those commands gone, she had overnight become the decision-maker.

She could only clumsily attempt to emulate the Father’s past demeanor, relying on her limited experience.

While no major changes had yet occurred, her past experience still served her well, even lending her an air of competence. But what then?

Gwynevere realized her profound lack of confidence, yet she was helpless. Her only hope was to find His Holiness the Pope as soon as possible.

“Your Holiness, there are sixty-three bodies in total. Including Miss Ellenore Perkin, who was resurrected, that makes exactly sixty-four individuals,” a Templar Knight in silver armor reported, kneeling before Gwynevere to confirm the count.

“Are you certain it’s sixty-three?” Gwynevere cast a sidelong glance, rapidly cross-referencing the number in her mind.

“Their identities have all been confirmed; they are all from the Salentz Diocese, without error,” the knight replied, puzzled by Gwynevere’s question. “Are you perhaps doubting Miss Ellenore Perkin? But…”

“I had some doubts earlier, but they are gone now,” Gwynevere said, shaking her head. After a pause, she added, “Thanks to Lady Vatitaya.”

“Thanks to Lady Vatitaya,” the Templar Knight responded reverently, bowing his head.

“Begin the cremation ceremony,” Gwynevere commanded, mimicking Bertram’s former tone and words. “May the departed rest in peace. May their devout souls find liberation in the sacred flames of the sun’s corona.”

****

The orange-red flames swayed fiercely in the cold, biting wind. In the blink of an eye, the cremation ceremony was already halfway complete.

Gwynevere had not brought the only two chantresses, Edith and Ellenore Perkin. Thus, Oliver Village’s chief volunteered to perform the chanting. He had indeed served as a chant-priest in the Salentz Diocese for a time before returning to his hometown in his old age, earning him considerable respect within the village.

As she watched the flames dance, a sudden thought sparked in Gwynevere’s mind.

“Could you take me to the place where they were attacked?” she asked, beckoning a young man from the village.

“We can, but… none of us really dare go there now… What if the Beastmen are still around?” the young man stammered, trembling.

“I will bring a Templar Knight with me, so you needn’t worry about safety. We will protect you,” Gwynevere reassured him, extending her staff from beneath her cloak to show the young man.

As the cremation ceremony neared its end, Gwynevere, a Templar Knight, and their retinue—a contingent of nearly two hundred individuals—followed the young villager’s guidance, continuing south to investigate.

Ellenore Perkin’s party had been ambushed on the road from Rocan to Oliver. The distance was not great; after roughly half an hour’s journey, they could see bloodstains and signs of struggle strewn across the ground.

Swords, shields, and broken arrows lay scattered in the middle and along the sides of the road. Horses lay tragically in pools of blood, and the carriage had been torn apart, riddled with damage.

The villagers had only removed the human remains, leaving the bodies of Beastmen and other creatures untouched. Valuable items had likely been pilfered and divided by the first villagers to discover the scene, but Gwynevere had no intention of pursuing the matter.

These fallen Beastmen were small, barely reaching a meter and a half in height. Their fur was a dull yellow, their knees backward-curving, and their feet cloven hooves. Their horns were either deformed or incomplete.

An unbearable stench exuded from their bodies, so potent that even the smell of decay could not mask it.

“These are all Lesser Horned Beasts,” the accompanying Templar Knight observed, riding abreast with Gwynevere as he surveyed the area from horseback. “Not a single Horned Beast or Great Horned Beast has been slain. Did Miss Ellenore Perkin’s party offer no resistance at all?”

Gwynevere did not reply. Such a question hardly required an answer, as it was obvious that was impossible.

Her Holiness waved, signaling the contingent to halt. She dismounted her horse and walked personally through the pools of blood, scanning left and right. “There’s a trace of necromantic magic,” Gwynevere stated calmly.

“Necromantic magic?” the Templar Knight exclaimed, surprised. “Does that mean—?”

“This beast pack is connected to Klogotia,” Gwynevere concluded. “This is not good news. I have a bad feeling.”

To the Beastmen, Klogotia’s liches, like humans, were creators of civilization. Yet, Beastmen despised civilization, revering savagery and primitivism. The undead were also enemies of the cloven-hoofed races.

These two factions should never have aligned.

But if they truly had formed an alliance, the Northmarch would undoubtedly face the awkward predicament of being attacked from both front and rear.

“Order a retreat to Kord Town, immediately,” she commanded, whistling for her warhorse and leaping onto the saddle. She then issued instructions to the Templar Knight. “This road is extremely unsafe. Warn all villagers and townspeople. If necessary, consider evacuating the entirety of Oliver Village.”

The Templar Knight was astonished by the Saintess’s swift decisiveness in that moment, seeing in her a fleeting glimpse of His Holiness the Pope’s past demeanor.

After a long moment of stunned silence, he finally reacted, ordering his subordinates and squires, “Attention, all troops! Reverse course and return to Kord Town!”