The march had halted once they reached Grelneer's Pass. The perimeter had been drawn tighter around the formation, and The Order's makeshift camp had been set up. The Vanguard and Field Ops regiments were working overtime. The former prepared weapons and armor; the latter spent their time building.. Quill had caught a glimpse of the devices they were building, large catapults built from lumber and steel rivets, and spherical casks filled with an ominous-smelling liquid. A strange nervousness hung in the air. The men busied themselves because they knew what was coming. War.

The next day, Quill and the rest of the squad had been called to meet High Captain Corvus Kast and now stood outside his tent. The scout banner, depicting three black feathers, billowed in the frigid wind beside them. Quill’s eyes were drawn to three dark shapes circling high above.

"Why do they follow him?" he asked Slim.

Slim shrugged. "Dunno."

Quill had hoped for more of a conversation, but the squad was tense. Ever since receiving the summons from the High Captain, no one had talked much. Quill could only assume they weren't being called in for commendations. Either they'd done something wrong, or they were needed for something important. For some reason, Quill hoped it was the former. 

He looked at each man in the squad. They had only been marching in the Crusade for a few days, but it had already taken more than its toll.

Wil sat, leaning back against the banner beside the tent. His condition had worsened since yesterday. The once-handsome, gallant knight now looked like a gaunt specter—skin pale, eyes sunken. The back of his armor and tabard were stained dark with frozen blood from where he'd been injured. He stared at the snow, head lolling every so often as they waited. 

Yoran stood, staring straight up at the birds above. He'd taken more wounds than any of them. While he didn’t seem shaken, it was clear from the way he moved that they'd added up. He was covered in dried blood, both from himself and the Hallowbound he had torn apart the previous day. His beard and hair were unruly to begin with, but now they were a matted mess.

Slim looked nearly the same, save for the large gash above his left eye that forced a constant squint. And he looked as tired as Quill felt, dark bags under his eyes, yawning every few minutes. He crouched, smoking his pipe, idly dragging a finger through the snow in slow spirals.

Deckard paced a few steps away from the rest, rubbing the small hammer pendant on his chest as he muttered under his breath. He'd told Quill that one didn't pray to Iacred, so perhaps he was reciting the teachings of The Work. Regardless, Quill hoped the priest might earn some kind of divine intervention for the coming day.

And finally, there was Cross. He stood straight-backed, arms at his side. He stared at the tent, pipe in mouth, calmly drawing in Kindleroot and exhaling it from the corner of his lips. He bore no wounds. He didn't appear tired. He was focused. Maybe more so now than ever. If a Hallowbound were to burst from the snow beneath their feet, Quill was certain the Sergeant would simply execute it with keen precision, utterly unfazed. 

Quill held his manuscript in his hands. He'd written about their journey. About the men in the squad. About how he'd changed from what he'd seen. It wasn’t a cohesive story like the ones written by the great authors of old, but it was true. That had to count for something.

"Up," Cross barked.

The men scrambled to their feet as a squad of haggard-looking scouts exited the tent. Quill noticed that one of them, a tall slender man with his hair tied in a knot, bore the same pendant that hung from Sergeant Cross's neck: a solid black obsidian feather. 

"Come in, Melvin."

The voice came from inside the tent. It was deep, but smooth. Loud, but measured. It wasn't scratchy or tired like nearly every other man in The Order. It was almost... ethereal.

Cross turned up his pipe and tapped it into the snow, then nodded for the men to follow. They stepped inside and were greeted by a warm but barren tent. Aside from the firepit at its center, there were no furnishings at all.

On the far side of the tent, a man in a black feathered cloak stood with arms outstretched. His black hair and beard were short-cropped and neatly kept. But it was the eyes that unnerved Quill. There was no distinction between pupil and iris, just pure black. The rest of his clothes and gear were unlike anything The Order had on hand. His boots and gloves were black leather, of foreign make, and he didn't wear the same tabard that every other soldier had. He seemed different from every other man here. There was an air of importance around him, despite his lack of retainers or possessions. And even though every man in The Order prepared for war, prepared for death, High Captain Corvus Kast smiled.

“Welcome, Squad Twenty-Two,” Corvus said, casually waltzing around the firepit.

The squad stood straight-backed and silent, as the High Captain approached. He stopped at each man, stepping uncomfortably close, and looked them directly in the eyes. When it was Quill’s turn, he couldn’t bear the weight of the gaze and looked down at his feet. Corvus let out a quiet chuckle before stepping to the next man.

"You have something for us, sir?" Cross asked.

“Oh, yes,” Corvus replied, finally stepping back from the men. He seemed satisfied with whatever he’d been searching for.

"You've lost the gladiator, the prisoner, and... the oracle?"

Cross nodded curtly.

Corvus shook his head, slowly rubbing his chin. “A shame. They were all so... interesting.”

"They were good men, sir," Wil said, a catch in his throat. "Good soldiers."

"They say good soldiers die when they're told to," Corvus mused, wagging his index finger. "But the great ones never die, no matter how many suicide missions they're given."

Wil furrowed his brow.

Quill wasn’t sure how to feel. Was it an insult? Or a testament to the men still living?

Cross cleared his throat. "Dead men can't help us now. What did you summon us for, sir?"

Corvus smiled but didn’t give a straight answer. “There are three Sergeants in the scout regiment to whom I’ve given a pendant. Three men who’ve earned my respect. My trust.”

He leaned down and lifted the obsidian feather from Cross's chest, examining it.

“So now my question is: are those men great soldiers? Will they survive no matter what I toss their way?”

He let the pendant fall back into place, turned, and clasped his hands behind his back. He circled the firepit and let out a faintly annoyed sigh.

"I don't wish to lose those men. But, to accomplish the impossible, one must risk losing greatness."

He snapped his head toward Quill, piercing black eyes locking on him.

"Am I wrong, Quill?"

Quill swallowed hard. "I... I think nothing is impossible, after what I've seen."

Corvus tossed his head back and let out a booming laugh. “Of course. I suppose it would be a paradox to accomplish the impossible.”

In an instant, his smile vanished. "So what I ask of you all this day is not impossible, simply the closest thing to it."

He paused, eyes scanning each of them again.

"I want you to kill the Black Knight and destroy the Totem that lies beyond Grelneer's Pass."

Deckard stepped forward. "Sir, that's—"

Corvus cut him off, raising a hand. "I know. To ask this of you alone may truly be impossible. That's why a Bloodletter will be joining you."

He paused again, the smile returned. "Blade."

The word hung in the air like some forbidden curse. 

"Eight squads have been chosen," Corvus continued. "Each will be accompanied by a Bloodletter. While the rest of The Order engages the army of Hallowbound waiting for us to set foot on Grelneer's Pass, these squads will slip past the enemy. Your aim is not to fight, but to reach the Totem as quickly as possible and destroy it."

Quill’s stomach dropped. It was a suicide mission.

“Eight squads from eight directions will attempt to reach the hill where the church housing the Totem stands. Not every Hallowbound will be drawn from the woods, so expect some resistance. Any questions?”

The squad was silent, each man taking in the weight of their new orders.

"Why not..." Quill coughed. "Why not send all the Bloodletters together? Wouldn't that give us the best chance of success?"

"Ah, a smart man." Corvus stepped forward and clapped Quill on his uninjured shoulder. "But alas, we tried that during the last Crusade. These Hallowbound may seem mindless, but they understand one thing: danger. We send a full squad of our strongest, and they know. They collapse on them, force them back. That’s why Blade was the only one to reach the Black Knight. That's why we were forced to retreat.”

He stepped toward the tent’s entrance.

“This time, we spread our strength. This time, we do not fail.”

He lifted the flap, motioning for them to leave.

"So, Squad Twenty-Two. Rest tonight. Blade will join you come morning."

They began to file out of the tent, Corvus following behind.

“And Melvin, Todd will brief you on your position and route for tomorrow.”

Cross only nodded.

Corvus turned and walked away, his movements smooth, silent. Quill didn’t even hear the snow crunch beneath his boots. The rest of the squad drifted back toward camp, faces pale and grim. But Quill broke away. He ran to catch the High Captain, barely reaching him before that black cloak vanished into the bustle of the encampment.

“High Captain!” Quill called after him. “If I may be so bold as to ask for a word.”

Corvus stopped and slowly turned to face Quill. His expression was quizzical rather than accusatory like Quill had expected.

“I know you must be busy,” Quill continued. “But I wanted to ask you about Sergeant Cross. You seem to know him well… or at least a better understanding of the man than the rest of us. He’s... not like us. He doesn’t flinch in the face of death or the horror of the Hallowbound. When men die… he doesn’t even react. Never once have I seen his face change. Never once has he shown an inkling of humanity. It’s… like he’s not human at all.”

“You’re wrong Gildrick Domar.”  Corvus responded instantly, his voice firm and loud.

“Melvin Cross is human. Desperately so. The Hallowbound are each a single piece of humanity, no matter what they do or try, they will always be... a piece. To be human you must be more. All your pieces must be held together, and as you break apart, you must find something to tether you. Melvin Cross, fractured though he may be, held together by one thing, one purpose. And he strives for it so desperately. What he fears, and it may be the only thing he fears, is that without it, he will no longer exist. That maybe he never existed in the first place. You say he is barely human, I say that is exactly what makes him so. If he strays from that path, he'll be lost. And so...”

He paused, spreading his arms with a smile.

“Melvin Cross, ever onward.”

He turned and began to walk away, waving a hand in the air.

“Something for your book, if you live long enough to finish it.”