The sun had only just begun to rise over Oria, painting the city in soft strokes of gold and violet when Koda unfolded the worn parchment.
The letter had arrived with the dawn runners—sealed in the wax of the Holy Mother, though the script within was unmistakably hers. Elegant. Measured. A little too careful. And yet each stroke breathed with familiarity, the same rhythm he'd read a dozen times in his head before ever seeing her hand.
—-—-
Koda,
I know I'm not supposed to start letters like this. We're told to open with a blessing or a verse, but I couldn't wait. I'm writing this between shifts—there's barely time to sit still these days, and even less when I let myself think about you. But here I am, still writing anyway.
They told us yesterday: our return to Oria will come sooner than planned. The Church has decreed it necessary to establish a field presence as far west as the borderlands. It's not official yet, but the whispers in the halls are loud, and not just from the Sisters. There's fear, Koda. Not just worry. Real fear.
You wrote that they're being called Fallen, these new creatures. That they towered over you—that they bled dark, and fought harder than anything you'd seen. And I know you, Koda. You'll put yourself between them and the next breath of someone else without thinking twice.
So I'll say this again, even if it gets old:
Please. Come back alive.
No glory is worth losing your name in the wind.
There's talk of full mobilization. Border towns are evacuating. And still, you write to me like your only concern is whether the squad beneath you respects you enough to follow orders. As if they wouldn't. As if any of them could carry what you do, day after day, and still come home to write like this.
I'll see you soon.
Sooner than either of us thought.
—Maia
—-—-
Koda let the letter drift in his lap, staring past the words.
The city below was restless. From his window in the orphanage dormitory, he could see the smog rising from the market district, the bustle of supply carts and messenger hawks crisscrossing the morning sky. The war hadn't come yet, not fully—but it was breathing down their necks. You could hear it in the tension between soldiers outside the city's barracks. In the silence of the people packing up homes near the outer gates.
The Fallen Orcs had been just the beginning.
Their numbers weren't slowing. Patrols once stretched over days, now turned in half that time, always returning with bloodied packs and reports of new movement. Outposts along the eastern roads had gone silent in the last week. Theories churned like dust in the halls of the Archive—some spoke of a break in the barrier between worlds, others of divine punishment.
But none of the speculation made them bleed less.
Maia would be in Oria soon. Earlier than she was ever supposed to return. But she wouldn't be coming back in peace. She would be tending to the wounded in a city bracing for siege.
And Koda would be on the walls.
He folded the letter slowly, tucking it into the leather pouch he kept near his chest, behind his undershirt. Close enough to feel. Not close enough to weigh him down.
Not yet.
Because the next time the Fallen came, it wouldn't be a skirmish.
It would be a reckoning.
___
The walls of Oria had never seen so many hands.
Teams of masons and smiths worked in shifts, iron reinforcing stone, scaffolding rising like bones against the skyline. Defensive glyphs—etched in chalk, then carved into permanence—now laced the gatehouse corners and bastion peaks. Archery slots were widened, murder holes cleared. Boiling stones and oil troughs stocked, siege-breaker spears mounted in racks.
And over it all, the banners of the Shield fluttered in Oria's stiff spring wind, as if daring the dark to come forward.
Koda sat by the narrow window, sunlight flickering off the city's rising defenses as he penned his response in careful, deliberate strokes.
—-—-
Maia,
Your letter reached me before breakfast, and I've read it more times than I'll admit in front of the squad. I wish it brought better news than it does, but still—selfishly—I'm glad. Not for the war. But for you. For the chance to see you again, even if it's only at a distance through the smoke.
I can't lie. The thought of you tending to broken men while the gates shake unsettles something deep within me. The thought of your hands covered in blood again—not your own, but still too much—feels wrong. You shouldn't be here. You should be safe.
But I also know better. You were always going to go where the pain was. And maybe that's why I've always known where to find you. There is a reason the Holy Mother has embraced you.
The city is hardening. We've been bolstered with aid from Ghiroun and Nalka—grain, stone, even a consignment of fire-salt from the coastal enclaves. I think the Lords of the eastern cities are hedging their bets. If Oria falls, the tide will follow.
South of us, at the edge of the salt plains, the enemy gathers. We've identified an old way station, long since fallen into ruin, now repurposed. We see their fires at night. Flickers of heat behind broken walls. They're building something, Maia. Something more than just numbers.
The scouts don't return as often as they used to.
I'll be stationed on the outer south wall. I'll be fine. But I won't pretend it's nothing.
I look forward to seeing you. Even if it's only in passing. Even if it's only through smoke.
Stay safe.
—Koda
—-—-
He paused at the end. Stared at his name like it was a stranger.
Eighteen months. And now she would walk the same streets again.
The wax seal pressed down with a heavy thumb, the letter joined a dozen others waiting to be carried down the mountain. He stood, rolling his shoulders. His armor, polished that morning, gleamed dully from where it hung near the foot of his bed—far heavier than it looked, but lighter than the weight behind his eyes.
Down the orphanage hall, the muffled voices of the Matron and her aides filtered through the cracked stone walls. Children were being kept closer to the inner city now. Safer, though no place would be untouched if the wall fell.
Koda secured the twin buckles of his breastplate, calling the blade of conviction and sliding it into its sheathe along his back, and descended the stairway.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of burning coal and oil and the rising clamor of command. He passed by cartloads of ammunition, tower shields stacked like gravestones, and lines of awakened filing to their posts.
Today he would meet with the other captains for the southern section—plan patrol rotations, construct fallback positions, and coordinate the paths of the relay hawks.
But even as the city prepared, even as drills echoed from the far corners of the ramparts, a part of Koda's mind remained quiet.
Waiting.
Wondering what would come first.
The enemy, or Maia.
______
The war room had been built into the upper bastion of the southern wall—thick stone and cold steel, its arched ceiling reinforced by silverwood beams harvested decades ago from the deep thickets of the Western Grove. Maps were pinned across the table in front of them, marked with sigils for scout positions, supply caches, fallback lines. Tension, almost physical, hummed in the space between the captains.
General Aeron stood at the head of the war table. Late forties, hair in dark grey braids down his back, a gaze like cold iron. His voice cut through the murmuring like a blade.
"Let's be clear. We'll lose the outer wall. It's a question of when, not if."
Silence fell, heavy and absolute.
He continued, voice grim but calm. "When it happens, we collapse in phases. I need to know what I can expect from each of you—squad strength, top stats, effective reach. I'm not guessing in the middle of blood. Start with Captain Belren."
A tall, square-jawed man stepped forward. His armor bore the dark blue lines of a veteran of the Shield, and the way the other captains nodded to him spoke volumes. Belren bowed slightly before speaking.
"Level 24. Strength-focused build. 5:3:1 split—Strength, Vitality, Agility. Strength currently at 19."
A few nods around the room. Expected. Solid.
"Next."
"Captain Serah. Level 18. Mana-heavy control caster. Primary in Intelligence at 17, support in Wisdom and Agility."
Another voice followed, then another. One by one, the captains listed their strengths and gaps, the weight of their combat experience heavy in every word. They were older. Hardened. Most looked at least 8 years older than Koda, if not more.
Then it was his turn.
The room quieted.
Koda stepped forward. He could feel the weight of their eyes—most with curiosity, a few with open skepticism. His armor was clean but not ornamental. His features still held the lines of youth, though they were tempered now by exhaustion, by the bitter taste of real loss.
"Captain Koda. Level 17," he said evenly.
Koda hesitated, deciding if he should just lie– before resolving to fate.
"Balance build."
There was a subtle shift in the room. Eyebrows lifted. The general tilted his head.
"Clarify," Aeron said.
Koda's voice remained even. "All stats advance equally. Strength, Vitality, Agility, Intelligence, Wisdom, Endurance."
The room was full of scoffs. Even a level 25, a supposed Commander grade chosen, who wasted their stats by investing them equally was a fool on par with your average level 10 specialist.
A joke.
Koda could see the pity in the eyes of the room, already writing him off.
"Twenty-one points across the board."
A beat. Then a few annoyed sighs. One of the older captains leaned toward another and whispered something half-laughing. Even Serah frowned. "That's not possible without divine intervention."
Aeron didn't scoff. He studied Koda the way a smith might study a blade too sharp to be steel.
"Confirmed?" he asked. His voice stern.
Koda nodded once. "System verified. Divine trait."
That quieted them more than anything.
Aeron didn't press. "Any battlefield specializations?"
"Close combat. Sword class. Primary skill scales with Willpower and Wisdom. Secondary is passive and used for crowd control - morale based"
The general's eyes narrowed slightly. "Unorthodox. But war rarely waits for ideal forms. We'll revisit this if time allows."
He turned to the table again, tracing a line from the crumbling outer wall toward the inner choke points.
"Once the outer is lost, the first fallback line is the River Channel. If they break that, we collapse to three defense rings around the citadel. I want four captains assigned to rotating interception teams along the channel line. Your squads must be prepared for mobile defense and reinforcement—adaptable, not entrenched."
He began assigning positions, placing his veterans near the vital zones. Koda was positioned with one of the faster-moving defense teams, meant to hold the bridge approach. A hard job, but one where his balanced stats could shine.
Still, as the captains filed out, the conversations behind him were quiet, measured.
"Never seen a balance build past level 10…"
"Sounds like a fantasy. He's full of shit."
"If he's telling the truth, that boy should be a commander."
Koda walked through the murmuring without reacting, his face unreadable.
They didn't understand.
They hadn't stood in that alien forest. Hadn't pierced the heart of a dungeon. Hadn't watched comrades die and sworn it wouldn't happen again—or perhaps they had. Too many have seen death in this era.
He stepped into the wind as bells tolled noon over Oria. Below, his squads prepared. Beyond the southern gates, shadows moved behind ruined stone.
The war was coming.
And Koda would meet it head-on.