Darkness pressed in, not just from the night, but from the shock blooming through his shattered ribs. The world was a distant roar of pain, the taste of blood and loam thick in his mouth. As the boots crunched closer through the debris, Arrion's mind, seeking escape from the impending end, fell backwards. Not to his mother's scent, but to the dry, dusty sunlight of the training yard, and the grating voice of Ser Gerrant.
He'd been fifteen, frustrated after a beating, watching a knight of the Marquis's personal guard ride through the town square in resplendent, enchanted plate that shimmered in the sun. "Could I ever have that?" he'd asked, the question more bitter than hopeful.
Gerrant had spat into the dirt, his milky eye staring at nothing. "Forget the shiny metal, boy. It's the power behind it that matters. The Rank. You think knighthood is just a title? It's a ladder. And most never get off the bottom rung."
He'd leaned on his practice sword, his flinty eye sharp. "You start as a Man-at-Arms. Muscle and basic drill. Nothing more." He'd poked Arrion's chest with the blunt tip. "Which is where you are. Then, if you've got a spark of something they can use, they make you a Gallant. Flashy, loyal, good for ceremonies and charging where you're told. Still just a tool."
Arrion had wiped sweat from his brow, listening. "And after?"
"After comes the first real step. The Adept." Gerrant's voice had dropped, touched with something like grudging respect. "That's when the Order's masters start feeding you the secrets. You learn to feel the energy in your blade, to make it cut a little truer, strike a little harder. You can channel a trickle. Most of Ralke's household knights stop there. Useful, but not special."
The memory shifted, Gerrant pacing. "Then there's the Vindicator. That's a battlefield rank. They can imbue their strikes with elemental force—a flash of fire, a crack of lightning in the steel. They can push their bodies beyond normal limits for a time. One Vindicator can break a shield wall."
He'd stopped then, looking at Arrion with an unreadable expression. "And above them… the Paladin. Not just knights. Conduits. Their will shapes the world around them. Their armor is a second skin of pure energy. Their presence alone can bolster an army or make a coward's heart freeze. The Marquis has two, maybe three. They are his unholy trinity."
The old retainer's face had grown grim, as if speaking of ghosts. "But the legends speak of ranks beyond, forged in wars against things that gnaw at the roots of the world. The Justiciar, who can pass judgment with a word that shatters magic. The Paragon, a living bastion whose power can shield a city. And at the peak…" Gerrant had looked almost afraid, "…the Saint-Knight. More myth than man. Said to have ascended, to wield the power of a born deity. Their deeds become scripture. Their footsteps leave light."
A sharp kick to his armored side jolted Arrion back to the present, to the crushing dark and the green-tinged glow filtering down from above. Agony flared, but with it came a chilling clarity.
The old man's blade had glowed. It had cut through stone and ancient oak with a wave of force. Not just elemental augmentation, but raw, destructive projection.
Vindicator. At least.
The boot pressed down on his wounded chest. The younger man's voice, smug with the serpent's triumph, came from nearby. "See? Even the sturdy oak falls. Fetch the head. The Marquis will want proof the Haelend line is truly ended."
Arrion's fingers, buried in the cold soil, brushed the hilt of Nightshade. The memory of the ranks wasn't just a lesson. It was a map. Walked on, trodden, written into the stars. he wrapped his hand around Nath'shade and raised it in a lightning-fast arc and stabbed the man stepping on his chest in the gut.