Chapter 27 Saint of the Frontier
Seraphine rode slowly through the ashes of Red Hollow, her white-gold robes now streaked with soot and the smell of death clinging to the fabric. The once-thriving frontier village lay in ruins around her. Burned-out homes still smoldered, and the wind carried the bitter scent of charred wood and blood. Behind her, Brother Aldric and twenty templars of the Radiant Veil followed in tight formation, their armored horses kicking up gray dust.
A small group of survivors huddled near the cracked village well. They looked up with a mixture of hope and fear as she approached. When they recognized the Saint, several dropped to their knees.
“High Priestess,” an old woman whispered hoarsely. “The Light has come to us at last.”
Seraphine dismounted gracefully and knelt before them, her silver eyes soft with compassion. “Tell me exactly what happened here. Who attacked your village?”
The survivors exchanged uneasy glances. A young man with heavily bandaged arms finally found his voice. “It wasn’t a simple attack, Your Holiness. The soldiers came first. They said we were harboring traitors and started burning everything. Then… the dead king arrived with his monsters.”
“The dead king?” Seraphine pressed gently.
“He killed the soldiers,” another woman added. “But he didn’t touch us. He stood right there among the flames, staring at the burning houses, and for a moment… he looked almost human. Sad. Like he was remembering something painful.”
Brother Aldric stepped forward, his face tight. “Enough of these stories. Do not fill the High Priestess’s mind with the creature’s deceptions.”
Seraphine raised a hand to silence him and continued questioning. In the next village, the tale shifted again.
“He called himself a king,” an old farmer told her, voice trembling. “Said the Crown feeds on its own people like parasites. He took the wounded with him and told the rest of us we could serve or leave freely. His big silent monster carried children out of the burning buildings.”
In a third settlement, a grieving mother spat on the ground when asked about the Hollow Commander. “Monster. Nothing but a monster. His creatures tore through the soldiers like they were made of paper. He didn’t speak. He just killed and left the rest of us to rot among the ashes.”
Everywhere Seraphine went, the stories contradicted each other. Savior. Executioner. Liberator. Demon. King. The more she heard, the more the Order’s simple narrative of a mindless abomination began to crack inside her mind.
That night, as they made camp beside a ruined outpost, Brother Aldric confronted her beside the fire.
“You are asking too many questions, Seraphine,” he said quietly but firmly. “Your duty is clear. Locate the creature. Destroy it. Do not let these peasant tales poison your resolve. Doubt is the first doorway through which darkness enters the soul.”
Seraphine stared into the flames. “But what if some of the stories are true? Entire villages disappearing. People taken away in the night for ‘purification.’ What if the Crown has been hiding its own sins?”
Aldric’s expression hardened. “You are the Saint of the Radiant Veil. You were chosen for your unyielding faith. Do not fail that calling now. The creature is using these tactics to weaken you. Focus only on eradication.”
She fell silent, but the seed of doubt had already taken deep root.
The following morning they reached another devastated hamlet. Smoke still rose lazily from several collapsed roofs. Templars moved among the survivors, distributing what little aid they carried. Seraphine spotted a small boy, no older than six, hiding behind a broken wooden cart. His face was streaked with tears and soot, his small body trembling.
She approached slowly and knelt in front of him, offering the gentlest smile she could manage. “It’s alright, little one. You’re safe now. The bad men are gone. Can you tell me what you saw?”
The boy stared at her with wide, frightened eyes. He clutched a torn piece of cloth tightly to his chest like a shield.
“The dead king came,” he whispered. “His monsters killed the bad soldiers who were burning everything… but when he saw the burned houses and the dead people on the ground… he stopped. He looked really sad. Then he cried. The dead king cried.”
Seraphine felt her breath catch in her throat. She reached out and gently touched the boy’s shoulder, her hand glowing with soft golden light that seemed to comfort him slightly.
“The dead king… cried?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
The boy nodded, fresh tears welling up in his eyes. “He did. I saw it with my own eyes. His green eyes got bright and wet. Then he told his big monster not to hurt any of us and they left. He didn’t take anyone who didn’t want to go.”
Seraphine remained kneeling in the dirt, stunned into silence. The image refused to leave her mind, a terrifying undead commander standing amid the ashes of a burning village, shedding tears. It contradicted everything the Order had taught her about the undead. It contradicted everything she wanted to believe about the enemy she was sent to destroy.
Aldric appeared behind her, voice sharp. “High Priestess, we should move on. There is nothing more of value to learn in this place.”
But Seraphine stayed on her knees, staring at the frightened child. Her silver eyes shimmered with conflicting emotions she could no longer hide, grief, confusion, doubt, and something dangerously close to fascination.
The Hollow Commander was no longer a simple monster in her mind.
He was becoming something far more dangerous.
He was becoming real.