Squad S-22 had returned to their position in the formation the following morning. Whatever peace and safety they had felt the night before now seemed painfully brief as they trudged through the endless snow. The terrain hadn't changed since they first entered the Frostwood, ashy white dead trees stretched as far as the eye could see. Not a single speck of life remained. Quill had hoped he'd  feel rejuvenated after their night of safety, but instead, he felt stiff and sore. Like the rest had only given his body time to realize how spent it truly was. The rest of the squad seemed no better off. Each man stretched or winced as they marched. Vardok constantly flexed his bad arm, though he refused to complain out loud. Cross was the only man who seemed fresh. He marched like it was their first day, not their third. 

It was near midday and they hadn't seen any Hallowbound. In fact there hadn't been a single smoke signal anywhere in the formation all morning. Quill wondered if maybe there were no more Hallowbound left to fight. But he knew that was foolish, and far too optimistic. 

Quill glanced at Trevin, who marched beside him. The little man's face was warped with worry and fear and he was staring at Vardok.

Quill stepped closer and whispered, "What is it Trevin? Do you see something?"

Trevin nodded stiffly. "It appeared l-last night. Above Vardok."

Then his voice sharpened, suddenly clear. “I see black smoke above a field erupting in blue flame.”

Quill swallowed hard. "What does it mean?"

Trevin finally met his gaze. "I don't know. B-but it makes my stomach ache."

Trevin was a strange man, he spoke the least in the squad, other than Yoran of course, but Quill felt he knew the most. Like he was cursed with knowledge that even he couldn't decipher. 

A blade looming over you.

Quill remembered what Trevin had seen over him and wondered what it meant. If it was all nonsense, or if there was something deeper behind the words. Then he had a strange thought.

"Did you see anything over Stevan's head? Before..."

He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

Trevin looked down, his form seeming to shrink, then nodded slowly. "I saw a hooded man in the gallows... all alone."

Before Quill could respond, Wil gave a short whistle.

They all turned. From the front of the formation a signal rose into the air—black smoke.

———

Within the hour, the entire formation had been halted. Outer scout squads were recalled and the perimeter was drawn tighter. For the first time during the Crusade, other squads were visible within eyeshot. The scouts Quill could see looked as tired and worn as S-22. Every squad had seen combat, and none still marched at full strength.

Quill glanced at Trevin again, who was now cupping his ears and gritting his teeth.

"What now, Trevin?" Quill asked.

Trevin groaned and balled his fists as a hooded scout appeared from the tree line behind them. The hooded man whispered something to Cross before melting back into the shadows.  

"B-big. B-bad," Trevin stammered.

Cross stepped forward. "Listen up. We this position until the threat is dealt with. Vanguard and Field Ops will handle it head on. Scouts will hold the flanks."

"What is it?" Slim asked.

Cross shot him a hard look. "Doesn't concern us. But... a Crucible."

The squad fell silent. 

Quill had read the page in the Codex about Crucibles.  They were gargantuan creatures that spanned hundreds of feet with multiple faces and bodies all spun into one disturbing mound of flesh. It was labeled as a severe threat, one of only a few. It called for the entire force of The Order and even Bloodletter intervention. It was only a single Hallowbound, but it would take an army to slay it.

"Like I said, doesn't matter to us," Cross continued. "We hold here. And make sure no enemies makes it through the flank."

The men nodded and moved to take their positions.

Slim must've caught the relief on Quill’s face. "Lucky us, huh? Perk of being on the frontlines during the march, we don’t have to fight the truly heinous shit."

Quill managed a faint smile. "I suppose it's something."

Slim leaned in close.

"With a Crucible on the way," he whispered. "good chance we'll see some Bloodletters."

He struck a match for his pipe and nodded toward Trevin, who now looked physically ill.

"What's wrong with Twitch?"

Quill shrugged. "Said he saw something over Vardok's head. Then mumbled something about 'big and bad.'"

Slim exhaled a puff of Kindleroot. "Well, those are certainly two words I'd use to describe a Crucible."

"Have you ever fought one?"

Slim shook his head. "No. Deckard and Cross have, though. They say its like four giant Hallowbound in one. Gotta kill it from every side if you want a chance."

"You seem awfully relaxed about all this."

Slim laughed. "Yeah, well, I ain't the one fighting the damn thing, am I?"

Snow began slowly falling around them. Another fresh sheet of white to bury the destitute forest. Between the dead forest and The Order’s muted colors, Quill found himself desperate for a splash of color. He felt like seeing a green patch of grass or a pane of beautifully stained glass would do more to heal his aches than a good night's rest. The thought crossed his mind that he may never see real color again. He tried to recall the last piece of art he had seen, but nothing came to mind.

I will not perish, he told himself.

Within the hour came the rumbling. A grating sound with loud creaking and thunderous crashing. To the north trees began to tremble and fall. Some torn from the ground, the others snapped clean in half by great force. It was so violent and widespread, Quill thought it may be a quake. But he was wrong. The source of the rumbling revealed itself. A towering, slithering behemoth of grotesque gray flesh. Its body was a misshapen sphere of flesh, with four giant screaming faces bulging under its skin, like they were trapped inside and gasping for air. It lurched clumsily toward The Order's frontline, propelling itself forward with dozens of giant tentacle-like appendages. Trees and ground gave way like they were made of wet clay as it crashed though the terrain. 

They were meant to be watching the tree line for Hallowbound, but every eye had turned to the horror.

"How the hell do you even kill that?" Slim muttered.

Trevin had dropped to his knees, whimpering.

"UP!" Cross barked, hauling Trevin to his feet. 

Cross hadn't taken his eyes off the tree line. "Do your job." 

Quill struggled to focus on his task. The sounds of distant battle had begun, drawing his gaze again and again. He saw volleys of flaming arrows, lines of men locking shield walls, and even a squad of soldiers wielding swords wreathed in blue fire—The Emberblades. The Vanguard struggled against the onslaught of fleshy tentacles the creature flung their way. Men were hurled through the air, some snatched mid-flight and their bodies snapped like twigs. Clouds of snow erupted each time the Crucible slammed the ground with its massive girth.

The same hooded scout from earlier reappeared behind the squad, striding briskly toward Cross. He whispered something to the Sergeant. Cross narrowed his eyes.

"Listen up," he said. "Todd's called for me. I’ll return soon. Deckard’s in charge until then."

Cross turned and marched off with the hooded scout. Quill watched his cloak billow as he went. 

"No man dies until I get back," he said,. Then he was gone.

No one voiced a complaint or a question. In The Order, no man ever would. But Quill would soon wish he had, just this once.

Slowly but surely the Hallowbound began to bleed. Small specks of fire dotted its flesh where arrows had found their mark. Gray tendrils and Order men alike lay lifeless in its wake. Many men had fallen to weaken the creature, and many more would die to finish it. 

Just when Quill thought the final push would come, the Vanguard retreated. The Crucible thrashed with and rolled forward, pushing the men back even further. The chance for victory seemed lost.

Then the regiments of soldiers began to part. 

They arrived with no fanfare. No trumpets or horns. No banners. No cheers. No speech. They were not here to inspire. They had arrived to end it. That was all. There were three of them. Men—no, they were something more than men. Or perhaps something less. 

"They really called them in," Wil said, his face tight with fear and awe. "Bloodletters. Three of them."

They were far off, and Quill could only make out the details of one.

He was a giant. Taller than any man on the field, clad head to toe in battered, blackened plate. The armor looked as though it had seen a thousand battles and had never once been repaired. It should have weighed a ton, but the Bloodletter moved like it was nothing.

Behind him, dragging through the snow, came his weapon: a warhammer of solid iron. It's head carved a rift in the snow as it was pulled forward to its violent and terrible purpose. It was far too large for any man to lift, let alone swing.

This was no man.

This was Hammer.

Quill strained to catch a glimpse of the other two as they moved through the ranks. He couldn't see them fully, but he saw enough. The second was draped in what looked like frozen iron chains, stiff and clinking with every step. He only caught a flash of the last man's face, but saw that he bore a strange resemblance to Maltukk, the god of war. He couldn't make out what weapons the Bloodletter carried, only that it promised great violence.

Quill could no longer tear his eyes away from the unfolding spectacle. With Cross gone, none of them could.

Trevin was groaning again, this time standing and facing the tree line. The rest of the squad was too transfixed on the Bloodletters to notice.

Quill was the closest to the little man. He heard him mumbling under his breath and stepped closer.

"Death. Death. Death. Death."

Quill's stomach dropped.

"Trevin?"

Trevin turned to speak, then jolted as an arrow the size of a spear slammed into his chest, driving him into the snow. He slid down the shaft, gurgling blood. For a moment he twitched and convulsed, then he went still. 

Then a whoosh as another arrow tore through the air.