Chapter 67: Chapter 67 — The Eastern March

The dawn after the night of slaughter broke heavy and slow over Outpost Vester.

The sky carried the color of bruised bone—purples fading into sickly gray—as if even a little light hesitated to shine on the carnage littering the ravine. Smoke drifted over the walls, clinging to the air like a memory that refused to fade.

Outside the outpost’s battered gate, the last of the bone crawlers writhed and shrieked as Vester’s soldiers drove spears through their chitinous frames.

“Push them back!”

“Keep the shields locked!”

“Don’t let the burrowers regroup!”

The shouts echoed across the clearing. The battle had gone on for nearly an hour after the first wave collapsed, an exhausting, grim task of clearing stragglers and butchering anything with too many legs or too many teeth.

Now only the remnants of the swarm lingered—crippled crawlers dragging themselves with shattered limbs, burrowers too weak to dive back underground.

A squad of veterans marched in formation, their boots squelching through monster gore. Their leader, a grizzled woman with a broken nose and two missing fingers, halted and raised her halberd.

“On my mark!”

Her squad took position.

“Mark!”

The formation surged forward, weapons flashing. Steel met bone. Chitin cracked. Screams turned to wet pulp beneath disciplined strikes.

Within minutes, the battlefield quieted.

The last crawler’s hiss ended under the weight of five spears.

A silence settled—one filled not with peace, but exhaustion.

“Burn the bodies,” the veteran ordered. “We’re not taking chances.”

Flames soon licked at the piles, sending acrid smoke spiraling into the dawn.

Inside Vester, Atheon sat alone on a cot deep in the medical ward, stripped of armor, covered in cloth soaked with bitter medicinal oils.

His eyes were awake.

Wide open and alert.

The healers had ordered him to rest.

He refused.

His breathing was steady, but every rib ached, every tendon burned. His knuckles were cracked to the bone. His shoulders throbbed from the weight of holding his squad together during the run from the cliffs.

But he was alive.

His team—what was left of it—was alive.

And that was enough.

He pushed off the cot, ignoring the healer’s glare.

“You need two more hours—” she began.

Atheon cut her off with a single look.

“I’m done waiting.”

He grabbed his shirt, tied on the remnants of his armor, and stepped out into the corridors of Vester.

By midday, word had spread:

“Grimm hollow’s outpost commander was awake. The Fist of men was asking for audience with the men running this place.”

One after another, Vester’s leaders, Rowan kadesh and vaelith crownhold, filed into the east hall—Two adept commanders, each roughly the same level of power as Atheon.

They were mid-tier adepts, hardened by the Shroud’s waves and by years of defending Vester against the nightmares crawling through the forest.

They were equals to Atheon in strength, but not in sheer presence.

When Atheon entered the hall, even the air shifted.

His boots echoed on the stone floor, each step carrying the weight of a man who had buried too many recruits, who had carved his survival through grit, blood, and merciless discipline.

Vaelith, ever the man with words, spoke first.

“You sent for us.”

“Atheon,” Vaelith added with a respectful nod, “we heard what happened. Your run was… costly.”

Atheon didn’t sit.

He folded his arms, each muscle taut.

“I called you here because I need to know what Outpost Vester’s plan is now.”

Vaelith raised a brow. “What do you mean?”

Atheon stepped closer to the table, gaze steady and unyielding.

“Even I can feel the tensionin this halls.I don’t know what you guys have going on but I’m not planning to get killed by it..”

The room stiffened.

Rowan voice rumbled. “You think you came here by choice? No. You fled your post because you had to. You ended up on our doorstep because you had to. And now you’ll follow the structure set here—because you’ll have to.”

Atheon held still, not even a flicker in his eyes. His stance settled into something unmistakably prepared—one shift, one breath wrong, and he’d meet it with violence

Silence filled the chamber until vaelith finally exhaled.

“We’ve got work ahead and we would face all of it either way. Seems we’re aligned for now, Fist of Men. That’s at least if you’ve chosen your colors.”

Atheon simply nodded. Whatever riddles Vaelith chose to speak in, he’d let them lie. In this outpost he had no political ground to stand on, no strings to pull—only the brute weight of his own strength.

Vester’s east end was a sprawling stretch of barracks, training rings, dirt arenas, and encampments—each one belonging to different patrol units, militia groups, or sponsored squads.

Atheon’s men were assigned a long, weathered barrack near the cliff wall—sturdy, empty, and isolated enough to train recruits without interference.

When Atheon stepped inside, the air still smelled of dust and disuse.

“This will do,” he murmured.

His men—those who survived—filed in after, limping and bruised. They moved like ghosts wearing soldiers’ skins.

One recruit, barely seventeen, whispered, “Wow… this place is huge.”

Atheon didn’t answer. He was too busy observing the other squads nearby.

Bright-colored banners hung from their barracks—scarlet, and, sea-blue. Symbols of wolves, suns, dragonflies, spears. Nobility’s coffers sponsored nearly all of them, supplying better gear, better medicine, and access to resources normal squads couldn’t dream of.

Atheon frowned.

Vester wasn’t just a fortress.

It was a showcase.

A playground for nobles to parade their chosen warriors, betting on their survival, competing for prestige and influence.

And the more Atheon looked, the clearer the hierarchy became.

Squads with the brightest banners trained with refined weapons.

Squads with simple cloth banners sparred with raw steel.

Squads with no banners… got ignored.

His jaw tightened.

He turned to his soldiers.

“We’re choosing a color.”

They blinked at him.

“A… color, sir?” one asked.

“A banner,” Atheon corrected. “A symbol. If this place is run like a spectacle, we’ll play the part. Our way.”

He scanned his men.

“Suggestions?”

They exchanged unsure looks until one muttered, “Black?”

Another said, “Silver?”

“We’re not here to shine,” Atheon said. “We’re here to win.”

Then he pointed to the smallest flicker of dying torchlight behind them—an orange glow, fierce but controlled, shaped by the wind into sharp movement.

“Burnt orange,” he said. “The color of smoldering heat. Remnants of a fire that refuses to die.”

The men nodded.

The commander seldom explained his choices, but when he did, they stuck.

“From now on,” Atheon declared, “anyone wearing this color walks with us.”

Their new identity was set.

Late into the afternoon, a messenger approached—dressed in immaculate velvet, with rings on every finger and a crest stitched into his cloak: a golden branch crossed by a falling star.

Everyone in Vester knew that sigil.

House Aurin.

One of the richest and most influential houses in the Republic.

Owners of mines, fleets, academies, and half the northern coastlines.

The chief patrons of the Trials, they called it—which was the farce being played at vester.

When the messenger stopped before Atheon, the entire barracks fell still.

“Commander Atheon,” the man said with a perfect bow, “House Aurin sends its regards.”

Atheon’s brow arched.

“We have been informed of your arrival,” the messenger continued. “And your survival.”

His smile was polite, sharp, and calculating.

“You have brought strength to Outpost Vester at a time when strength is scarce. House Aurin wishes to formally invite you and your men to enter this season’s Trials as an independent unit.”

The soldiers stiffened.

Were they not meant to be fighting a war against the ever-encroaching Shroud? Was this where their taxes were being bled away—into some nobleman’s sick little game?

IIt gave an answer to the reason every faction in the outpost was clawing at each other instead of the crawlers.

Rewards given were beyond imagination:

commission into higher ranks

rare cores

enchanted armaments

Sponsorships worth more than a year’s wage

military promotions

noble endorsements that could elevate entire families

Those prizes were why tensions ran high.

Why squads sabotaged each other.

Why smiles were hollow and alliances fragile.

Atheon’s gaze darkened.

“We’re not here to entertain nobles,” he said.

The messenger bowed lower.

“Of course not. You’re here to survive. House Aurin merely wishes to grant you the opportunity to do both.”

Atheon said nothing.

The messenger handed over a sealed scroll with gold trimming.

“The acceptance terms. You do not owe House Aurin fealty. No house owns any squad in Vester. The Trials simply ensure that contributions are… rewarded appropriately.”

He stepped back.

“Read it. Consider it.”

Atheon stared at the scroll long after the messenger left.

Behind him, one of his elites whispered:

“Commander… if we enter this… we could get real supplies. Real upgrades. We could even fast track our move on the political ladder.”

Another muttered, “Looks like the other squads never liked us showing up out of nowhere.”

Another: “Doesn’t matter. We’ll just beat them.”

Atheon turned.

His voice was firm.

“This outpost is boiling. Every squad here wants a piece of those rewards. They’ll do anything for them. Lie. Cheat. Break rules. Break bones.”

The recruits shifted uneasily.

Atheon continued:

“If we enter this so called trials… we enter a battlefield with no flags of mercy.”

He looked at the burnt-orange cloth pinned to the wall.

His new color.

His new symbol.

“If we enter… we enter to win.”

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