Commander Giel Strut stood near the tall window in his office, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the sickly light of the late afternoon bleed through the panes, casting fractured shadows across the worn wooden floor.

The glass itself was old, warped slightly at the edges where the lead framing had begun to sag with age, distorting the view of the courtyard below into something wavering and uncertain. Outside, the wind stirred the bare branches of the sentinel trees that lined the stone walls, their skeletal forms swaying like the fingers of drowning men reaching toward an indifferent sky.

The office smelled of old paper and lamp oil, mingled with the faint metallic tang that seemed to cling to everything in the Red House. Maps and charts covered one wall, their edges curling with humidity and age, marked with symbols and notations in various hands spanning decades of conflict. A low fire guttered in the hearth, providing more smoke than warmth, its crackling the only sound until footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the office.

"You are late," Strut said without turning, his voice carrying easily across the room.

Captain Dwight Gauss removed his helm carefully and held it under one arm as he stepped fully into the room. He was a tall man, with dark hair threaded through with streaks of gray and scars that seemed too brutal for a man of his age, and yet natural when one considered the life he had chosen to lead.

The largest of these scars ran from his left temple down across his cheek, disappearing beneath his jaw—a memento from a demonic blade that had come within an inch of ending him years ago at the Battle of Crow's Crossing.

His armor, polished but scratched along the edges, reflected the dim light of the room in harsh slivers. The breastplate bore the embossed sigil of the Order, though the design seemed to have been worn smooth. Mud still clung to his boots, and the hem of his cloak was sodden and dark. Gauss did not bow, but he did incline his head slightly in acknowledgment.

"I arrived when I was able, Commander," Gauss said, his tone polite yet strained. "The roads were not accommodating, as you know..."

"Indeed I do," Strut replied. He finally turned, facing the captain with his steady eyes. There was no impatience in his expression, only a deep, wizened calm.

"Let's discuss what brings you here, Captain? Why was I not written to?"

Gauss smiled faintly, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

"You were, Commander," he said simply.

Strut frowned. Then his frown turned into a grimace as he nodded once, understanding settling over him like a familiar weight.

The message had been sent, yes, but those who carried it had not survived.

That was not surprising as the roads between the capital and Liedenstorm had grown rather perilous over the years, even for men accustomed to their dangers.

"Sit," Strut said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

Gauss nodded, placing his helm carefully on the table before lowering himself onto the wooden chair. The chair creaked under his weight, protesting with the same weariness that seemed to permeate everything in the fortress. Strut returned to his desk and rested one hand on a stack of unsealed reports, their edges stained with wax and fingerprints.

"You've come a long way from Bridgehorn, Captain," Strut said. "It is customary to give you some time to rest, but it seems your message cannot wait."

Gauss exhaled once, a long breath that seemed to carry the weight of his journey. The captain's shoulders sagged slightly, and for a moment he looked every one of his years. Then he straightened, drawing himself back to duty, and began.

"A directive has arrived from the main branch. Immediate reinforcement is required at the garrisons stationed at the base of the Sunrise Mountains."

Strut's fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the desk, a rhythmic pattern that betrayed the calculation occurring behind his impassive expression.

"We are already stretched thin. The battle has raged for three weeks straight this time. The order is for additional forces. Men, supplies, anything that can be spared to stabilize the front."

Strut's gaze sharpened. "Is it that severe? What about the Seraphs?"

Gauss grimaced, his jaw tightening. "The Serapha have directed all their forces to the efforts. Naturally, they are the reason such a dilemma has befallen us."

Strut let out a sigh and gently rubbed his brows, his fingers pressing against the tension that had taken up permanent residence there.

"I see..."

Gauss continued, leaning forward as if the words themselves weighed heavily on him.

"Because of this, the remnants in the mountains are stirring more frequently, with surges of demonic activity erupting without warning. The men at the base are enduring attacks much more vicious and numerous than in previous cycles."

"And Orm?" Strut asked, testing, as he often did.

"Overflow," Gauss replied. "The Crucible and the Seraphs there have had to burn lives to maintain control. Punishments, executions, even forced conscriptions. The order demands stability, and yet there is only attrition."

Strut exhaled slowly through his nose. "Of course there is."

The fire popped in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window panes.

Gauss hesitated, then leaned forward slightly. "There are other developments," he said carefully, as if approaching a knife on a table.

Strut's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then speak them."

"In the capital," Gauss said, "there have been... purges. Houses, noble families accused of demon consorting and heresy have been targeted."

"Charges?" Strut's tone remained flat, his attention sharpening.

"Enough to satisfy the tribunals," Gauss said. His words were careful.

"Is that all?" Strut pressed.

"There are also the cults," Gauss said, "emerging in pockets across the empire. Three primary strains have been identified in the capital alone: worshippers of Malkok, the god of Consciousness and Revelry; Neru, the angel of Lust and Carnal Desire; and Canker, the god of Worms."

Strut grimaced, his hand tightening on the edge of the desk. "Don't tell me..."

Gauss nodded grimly.

"Indeed. Those are new ones. And they are spreading, even beyond the capital. The timing is suspicious. I have no explanation for the suddenness of their rise."

Commander Strut slowly closed his eyes, as if trying to shut out the implications of what he was hearing.

"A rise of new gods means we might have another catastrophe at hand. If even a single one of them is born, it will spell disaster to humanity as a whole."

Gauss nodded grimly then cleared his throat. "The directive to reinforce the front remains. I am here to ensure that it is received and understood."

"There is nothing left to give," Strut said firmly. "No men can be spared, not without breaking our backs completely. If they wish to see more lives burned, they will wait until more recruits survive the trials to become full Templars."

Gauss regarded him, a mixture of respect and concern in his eyes. "Understood, Commander. Yet I fear the situation may be dire this time."

Strut allowed a single breath to escape. "You came here to warn me, Captain," he said, flatly.

Gauss opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a knock came at the door.

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