Mother of Midnight

Chapter 168 – Caelum

Caelum swallowed nervously, the weight of his thoughts pressing heavily on his young shoulders. He had faced danger before, though it had always been in defense of his home. Back then, standing side by side with the people he’d known his entire life, armed with little more than a pitchfork and the resolve to protect what mattered most, he had been filled with purpose. Those battles had been terrifying, but they had been simple. Now, everything felt impossibly complex.

His father, the village healer, had always taught him the value of life. "Every soul," he’d say, "is a spark of something greater, something divine. It’s our duty to nurture that spark." His father’s wisdom had instilled in Caelum a deep respect for the sanctity of life, even in the midst of chaos. On the other hand, his mother, a skilled blacksmith, had taught him the value of strength. "Compassion without the strength to defend it," she’d said more than once while hammering out a blade or fitting armor, "is just a wish. You need both to protect what you love."

These teachings, so deeply ingrained, made the prospect of war almost unbearable. He couldn’t reconcile the senseless loss of life with the ideals he had grown up believing in. War was not glory. War was tragedy.

But the lekine to the east? They didn’t live under the grace of Praxus. That, too, was a tragedy, one he could not ignore. How could they find love without the guidance of the church to reveal their soulmates? Without the artifice of Praxus, how would they ever progress beyond the fractured, nomadic lives they led? To Caelum, it was as if they were lost in a fog, unaware of the brighter, more ordered world they could achieve under the aegis of the Church of Praxus.

He often wept over it in quiet moments, where no one could see the tears streaking his cheeks. The clans weren’t evil. They were just blind to what they could become. He believed they could be better—so much better. It was this conviction that drove him to fight, even as it tore at him to raise his sword against them.

Still, he couldn’t ignore the injustices within his own homeland. The lekine under Praxus' dominion were not treated as equals to humans. They were given scraps when they deserved so much more. It was a stain on the ideals he held dear. And yet, what could he do? He was a single soldier in an immense army, barely seventeen, with no power to change such systemic inequality.

It hurt to admit, but he clung to the hope that being under Praxus’ grace—imperfect as it was—was better than living without it. At least here, they had a chance to find purpose, to discover the truth Praxus offered. In time, maybe someone—maybe even him, someday—could help mend the fractures and bring true equality. But for now, he had to accept the world as it was and hope he had the power for change in the future..

Caelum stood at attention, every muscle taut, as if his very being might crumble under the weight of the moment. The entire regiment stood in perfect formation, their discipline a testament to the rigorous training they had undergone. But none of that prepared Caelum for the man before them.

Darius the Sentinel. The name alone carried a gravity that could silence any room. The man himself, with his salt-and-pepper hair and piercing gaze, seemed to embody the very ideals of Aegis: strength, justice, and unwavering loyalty. His voice was like a thunderclap, impossibly heavy, resonating through the air with a force that made Caelum's knees tremble.

The tales of Darius were legendary, whispered in awe-filled tones by villagers and soldiers alike. Sword of Aegis, Protector of the Empire, Champion of Praxus—each title a testament to his greatness. Standing in his presence felt like standing before a force of nature, and Caelum had to fight the instinct to bow lower than protocol demanded.

Yet, as intimidating as Darius was, Caelum’s mind couldn’t help but wander briefly to other champions of Praxus, figures he had idolized since childhood. Alisaria the Celestial Tide, for instance, had captured his imagination more than once. Her deeds were the stuff of myth, her grace and power described with such reverence that it was hard not to imagine her as something more than human. For a time, he’d even harbored a foolish, youthful infatuation with the idea of her, dreaming of her flowing silver hair and the strength she must carry.

But that was a childish fantasy, and one he had long since quashed. Such thoughts were inappropriate, especially for someone like him. His future had already been decided from the moment of his birth.

Lorne.

She was to be his wife, chosen for him by the church, as was tradition. Their union, ordained by Praxus, was meant to be a bond of harmony, a joining of two souls to better serve the divine will. It was a concept he’d always believed in, something he’d been raised to see as a blessing. Yet, as his eighteenth birthday—and their marriage—drew closer, he couldn’t ignore the pangs of doubt and sadness that accompanied the thought.

Lorne was… cold. She was stoic, guarded, and distant in a way that left him feeling like an outsider in his own life. When he tried to speak with her, she responded curtly, and any attempt at affection—an accidental brush of his hand against hers, a smile, a compliment—was met with a stiffness that bordered on recoil.

It hurt. Deeply.

And yet, Caelum couldn’t bring himself to resent her. She had so many qualities he admired. She was driven and resolute, with a strength of character that reminded him of his mother. Lorne cared deeply for her family, often speaking of them with a quiet pride that softened her otherwise rigid demeanor. Caelum clung to the belief that she didn’t hate him. She wasn’t cruel or unkind, just… distant.

He told himself it was enough. That it would be enough. He would never push her to do something she didn’t want, and if their marriage was destined to be one of duty rather than love, then so be it. He had his faith to sustain him, and he trusted that Praxus would guide them both toward understanding in time.

Still, there were moments when he couldn’t silence the ache in his heart. Moments when he allowed himself to imagine what it might feel like to have a partner who returned his affection openly, who smiled at him and sought his presence as much as he sought hers. The idea was bittersweet, a fragile dream that he quickly banished whenever it surfaced.

Darius stepped forward and Caelum was snapped from his thoughts, The champions steel-gray gaze sweeping across the regiment like a storm rolling in from the horizon. He didn’t speak immediately; the weight of his presence was enough to silence the murmurs and still the shuffling feet of the soldiers. When he finally began, his voice boomed with authority, each word deliberate and unyielding.

“Brothers and sisters in arms, you stand here today not as mere soldiers, but as the chosen defenders of the Empire—of Praxus itself! Look around you. Every face you see is a testament to our shared purpose, to the bond we hold with one another, forged by faith and strengthened by duty. You are not here by chance; you are here because you have been deemed worthy. You are the shield against chaos, the blade against ignorance, the hand of justice that will bring order to this fractured world.”

He paused, his expression hardening as his tone took on an edge of derision.

“Our enemies, the clans, live in the shadow of savagery. They scorn our progress, our light, our divinely guided wisdom. The Lekine, in particular, are little more than beasts masquerading as men. They reject the grace of Praxus, spitting upon the gifts we have offered. They cling to their primitive ways, their brutish instincts, their hollow traditions that lead them nowhere but ruin. They are lesser, and it falls to us to remind them of their place in this world.”

Darius began to pace, his words resonating like hammer strikes against an anvil.

“The clans call us conquerors, oppressors, tyrants. Let them call us what they will. They do so because they fear us. They fear the strength of our unity, the clarity of our purpose, and the undeniable truth of our superiority. They know that their ways cannot stand against the might of Praxus, against the will of Aegis. And so they resist, blindly, desperately, like cornered animals.”

His voice softened for a moment, taking on a tone of calculated pity.

“It would almost be tragic, were it not so pathetic. The Lekine are lost. They do not know love, for they lack the guidance of the Church. They do not know ambition, for they lack the tools of artifice. They do not know salvation, for they have turned their backs on it. They are children, fumbling in the dark, and we—we—are the light that will guide them, whether they accept it willingly or not.”

He stopped pacing, turning to face the soldiers with a commanding presence. His voice rose again, filled with conviction.

“But make no mistake: mercy has its limits. If they will not bend, they will break. If they will not accept the light, they will be consumed by it. You will show them the power of Praxus, the glory of Aegis, and you will not falter. For every step you take on this path, every battle you fight, every victory you claim—it is all part of a greater plan, a divine plan. You are not just fighting for your empire; you are fighting for the very future of this world.”

Darius’s eyes narrowed, and his voice grew cold and sharp, like a blade.

“So when you march into their lands, when you see their crude villages and their snarling faces, remember this: they are not your equals. They are obstacles, remnants of a broken past that we are destined to leave behind. Show them no hesitation. Show them no weakness. For if you falter, even for a moment, you betray the empire, the Church, and Praxus itself. And that is a betrayal I will not forgive.”

He stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the silent ranks of soldiers.

“You are the swords and shields of the Empire. Strike true, hold firm, and know that you carry the will of the divine with every breath. Now go, and make your preparations. The battle ahead will be one for the history books.”

Caelum shuddered as a rush of conflicting emotions surged through him. Anticipation mingled with dread, coiling in his stomach like a knot that refused to loosen. He didn’t want to inflict violence. He never had. But the path ahead demanded it—or so he was told. Violence was needed, they said, to right the world, to bring order, to make it work the way it should work. Darius’s words hung in the air like a dark cloud, heavy with conviction and disdain. They had stirred something deep within Caelum, but not in the way the general likely intended.

He replayed the speech in his mind, trying to reconcile its harshness with the truths he held in his heart. He didn’t like what Darius had said about the Lekine. Savages, Darius had called them, obstacles,lesser. The words grated against Caelum’s sense of justice, of fairness. It was easier, of course, to think of the Lekine as some faceless horde, wild and untamed, living without grace or guidance. But Caelum couldn’t let himself believe that entirely. He’d seen too much to accept such simplicity.

The Lekine weren’t just nameless others; they were people. He remembered Mrs. Dukurt, the elderly Lekine woman who ran the bakery in his village for her chaperone. Her fur had been graying when he was still a boy, her hands weathered from years of kneading dough and tending to her ovens. She always had a kind word and a warm smile, the sort that made the early mornings a little brighter. And when Caelum showed up just as the sun began to rise, she’d press a fresh pastry into his hands, the steam curling into the cool morning air. He could still taste the sweet, flaky crust if he thought hard enough.

Then there was Mr. Wesker, the broad-shouldered Lekine farmer who worked the fields alongside him during harvests. His voice had been deep and steady, always filled with practical wisdom and quiet humor. Caelum had spent hours in those fields, hands blistered and back aching, but Wesker’s presence had made the work bearable. The Lekine man had shared his meals, told stories of old hunts and lean winters, and had even once prayed beside Caelum, their voices blending as they gave thanks to Praxus.

How could such people be lesser? How could they be unworthy of grace or salvation?

Caelum’s jaw tightened, and he pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to doubt Darius—not the Sentinel, not the Sword of Aegis, not a Champion of Praxus himself. Darius was everything Caelum aspired to be: a man of strength, of conviction, of purpose. If Darius said the Lekine were savage, perhaps he was right. Perhaps there was something Caelum didn’t understand, some higher truth that eluded him.

But he had to hope.

He had to hope that the Lekine could be more than what Darius claimed, that they could laugh and love and pray, just as he had seen. Mrs. Dukurt’s gentle kindness, Mr. Wesker’s quiet wisdom—they weren’t anomalies. They couldn’t be. He’d seen too much humanity in them to believe otherwise.

And yet, Caelum couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of unease. He’d seen the darker side of the clans as well—the Drakthar raids that had scarred his childhood, the blood spilled on the village green, the terror in his mother’s eyes when the horns had sounded. He’d seen the savagery Darius spoke of, and he couldn’t deny its existence. But was it all they were? Could they truly be reduced to nothing more than beasts and brutes?

The questions churned in his mind, but there were no answers. Not yet.

Caelum straightened his posture, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword. He was here for a purpose. He was a soldier in the army of Praxus, a champion in training, a defender of the Empire and its people. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Darius was right, and the Lekine didn’t deserve his pity, his empathy. But he couldn’t let go of the small, stubborn hope that they did.

One day, perhaps, he would understand. But for now, he would fight. He would fight for Praxus, for Aegis, for the people he had sworn to protect. And he would carry that hope with him, quiet and fragile, like a candle in the dark.

The march stretched on for days, the dense canopy of the forest thinning as they ascended into the frigid heights of the pass. The air grew sharp with the bite of winter, the scent of pine mingling with the faint tang of frost. Snow blanketed the ground in uneven patches, crunching underfoot where the exomancers had yet to work their craft. Great plumes of steam hissed and swirled around the army as their magics melted the ice and warmed the air, an artificial spring blooming in the heart of winter’s chill.

Caelum shivered, though the warmth radiating from the dawn exomancers quickly eased the bite of the cold. Their magic was a marvel, a gift of Praxus he was deeply thankful for. The snow melted in their wake, and the air around the army was kept balmy even as icy winds howled through the pass. Without them, the march would have been unbearable. As an endomancer, his abilities were limited to augmenting his own body, and there was little he could do to ward off the biting cold or the unforgiving terrain. It only deepened his gratitude for the exomancers, whose power kept the army moving forward.

He adjusted the straps of his pack, his shoulders aching under the weight of rations and gear. He wasn’t sure why they were attacking now, in the heart of winter. The pass was known for its harsh weather, the biting winds that could strip flesh from bone and the avalanches that could bury an army in moments. But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps they sought to cross before the true depths of winter descended, to catch the clans unprepared.

Still, the thought gnawed at him. The cold wasn’t the only enemy here—supplies could run thin, soldiers could fall ill, and the mountains themselves could rebel against their presence. He glanced around at the column of troops, their faces etched with determination, weariness, and a hint of unease. Even the exomancers, cloaked in their auras of shimmering warmth, wore expressions of grim focus.

By the fourth day, the pass began to slope downward, the air losing some of its icy bite as they descended. The snow thinned, patches of bare earth and frost-bitten grass peeking through. Relief rippled through the ranks, though no one dared voice it. The silence of the mountains was oppressive, the vast expanse of stone and sky pressing down on them like a weight.

As they neared the end of the pass, they came upon a village—or what had once been one. The sight of it sent a chill down Caelum’s spine that even the exomancers couldn’t melt away.

The village was eerily quiet, its silence broken only by the creak of swaying shutters and the soft rustle of wind through the trees. The buildings were simple but sturdy, their logs weathered and gray. Snow clung to the rooftops, and icicles dangled from the eaves like jagged teeth. Smoke should have been rising from chimneys, warm light spilling from windows to welcome travelers. Instead, there was nothing—no glow, no laughter, no sign of life.

Caelum scanned the village as they passed, his eyes catching on the remnants of its former life. A child’s doll lay half-buried in the snow, its button eyes staring blankly at the sky. A wheelbarrow leaned against a barn, its handles worn smooth from years of use. The woodpile behind one house had been neatly stacked, but the logs were untouched, their surfaces dusted with frost.

“Abandoned,” someone muttered, the word carried on a breath of steam.

Caelum’s brow furrowed. It was a logging village, the kind that supplied timber to the lowland towns. The forest here was dense and rich, the trees tall and straight, perfect for building. There should have been workers, families, smoke curling from hearths. But instead, it was as if the village had simply... vanished.

“They must’ve fled,” another voice said, louder this time. “Saw us coming and ran.”

“Where to?” someone else replied, their tone skeptical. “There’s nothing for leagues in either direction.”

Caelum’s grip tightened on his pack as they moved through the village, his unease growing with every step. He tried to picture what had happened here—had the villagers heard the army’s approach and fled into the woods? Had they been taken by raiders? Or was it something worse, something unspoken that lingered in the shadows of the mountains?

He looked down at the doll as they passed, its tiny hand poking out from the snow. A pang of sadness struck him, the image of a child leaving behind their only companion cutting through his thoughts.

He hoped they’d gotten away, whoever they were. He hoped they were safe.

But as the army pressed on, leaving the ghostly village behind, he couldn’t shake the feeling that safety was a fragile thing in a world so eager to break it.

As they emerged from the pass and the snow receded into rocky hills, the army was ordered to halt and set up camp. The announcement came abruptly, leaving a ripple of confusion and murmurs in its wake. But soon, the reason filtered through the ranks: scouts had spotted raider bands of lekine ahead. Their first battle was drawing near.

Caelum felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. The idea of combat wasn’t foreign to him—he had fended off raiders before—but this was different. This was war. He clenched his fists as he reminded himself of his resolve. He would fight, not for glory or hatred, but to bring order and justice. If he could spare lives, he would, but he wouldn’t hesitate to protect his brothers and sisters in arms. They were all he had out here.

The camp soon came alive with the bustle of preparation. Fires dotted the clearing like scattered stars, casting their flickering glow over faces both grim and eager. Caelum found himself seated around one of these fires, the warmth pushing back the cooling air as he nibbled on his ration. The food was bland, little more than sustenance, and he couldn’t help but long for his father’s cooking. His father had always been unconventional for a man in their village, taking on the role of healer and homemaker while his mother, the village blacksmith, wielded a hammer as naturally as she did her faith. It wasn’t the traditional family structure dictated by Praxus, but Caelum believed their arrangement was no less blessed. Surely, Praxus had meant for them to flourish in their own way.

The clatter of conversation broke through his thoughts as Grunhilda, a stocky, older, cheerful woman he’d befriended during training, leaned closer to the fire. “Did you hear the rumors about the Nightstalker?” she asked, her voice low and conspiratorial.

Caelum looked at her, puzzled. “No? What is it?”

“Oh, I’ve heard of that one,” said Faeruhn, another comrade who was known for his calm demeanor, though there was a hint of skepticism in his tone. “Supposedly, it’s an aetherbeast that can speak. Personally, I think it’s just another campfire story.”

Grunhilda snorted, her laugh sharp and guttural as she leaned forward, embers from the fire reflecting off her broad, scarred face. “Of course you’d say that,” she said, shaking her head in mock disbelief. “But think about it. A creature born of aether, roaming the wilderness, hunting in the dead of night. They say it whispers to its victims, luring them away before it strikes. Some even say it takes their voices before it drains them, but that sounds wrong. Doesn’t it?” Her voice lowered as if speaking the words too loudly would summon the creature itself.

“That’s absurd,” Faeruhn replied, though his voice didn’t carry the usual confidence he wielded like a blade. He shifted in his seat, absently running a hand through his short, dark hair. “Aetherbeasts are dangerous, sure, but they’re still just beasts. They don’t speak, and they don’t steal voices. They kill—pure and simple.” He glanced at Grunhilda as though daring her to argue, but she only grinned, a sharp, wolfish expression that made Caelum uneasy.

Caelum frowned, his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. The fire’s warmth reached his skin, but a chill settled in his bones as he thought about what Grunhilda had said. Stories of aetherbeasts were as old as the Empire itself. He’d grown up hearing them, tales whispered in darkened homes during stormy nights. His mother would tell him to say his prayers before bed, to place a candle at the window to ward off the darkness. Aetherbeasts were chaos given form, creatures driven by instinct and hunger, unstoppable forces of destruction.

But to think that one might talk? That it could lure people away with whispers? The thought was like a splinter in his mind, small but impossible to ignore.

“If it’s just a story,” he said cautiously, “why would people be spreading it?”

Grunhilda shrugged, the movement casual, but there was something tense about the way she jabbed at the fire with a stick, sending up a fresh spray of sparks. “Well, aetherbeasts are scary enough, right? One that could think even more so. And there’s a rumour it was fended off by one of the high-ranking priestesses of the church. I think her name was Selene or something.”

“Oh, do you mean Priestess Solenne?” Faeruhn interjected, his tone tinged with skepticism.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Grunhilda said, nodding. “Apparently one of the watchtowers got attacked by it. Picked off guards one by one, incapacitated them without killing, and then ripped the bell clean out of the top.” She leaned forward, her eyes glinting in the firelight. “It incapacitated more than half the guards there. Then, after Solenne showed up, it escaped.”

Caelum frowned deeper. The idea of an intelligent aetherbeast was terrifying enough, but something about the story didn’t sit right with him. He shifted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Why didn’t it kill the guards?”

Faeruhn scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s an aetherbeast. Even if it can talk, maybe it just mimics speech or something. It might not even be thinking. You’re giving it too much credit.”

“Yes, but don’t aetherbeasts always go for the kill?” Caelum pressed, his voice steady despite the unease twisting in his gut. “Big or small, I’m pretty sure that’s consistent. If it left the guards alive, that suggests it had another motive.”

Grunhilda tilted her head, her grin fading into something more thoughtful. “Another motive?”

Caelum nodded slowly. “What if it was a distraction? It wasn’t there to kill, though it clearly could have. It wasn’t noticed until it attacked, so it could have slipped by. So what was its plan?”

The other two stared at him, their expressions ranging from confusion to mild amusement. The fire crackled in the silence, the only sound aside from the distant murmur of the camp.

Grunhilda broke the tension with a loud laugh, slapping Caelum on the back so hard he nearly fell forward. “When you say shit like that, I forget you’re just a farm boy!” she said, her voice brimming with mirth. “A smart aetherbeast? A plan? Come on, Caelum, you’re thinking too hard about this.”

Caelum straightened, rubbing his shoulder where her hand had struck him. “Maybe,” he said quietly, though the doubt lingered in his mind.

“Definitely,” Faeruhn said with a smirk. “Look, the idea of an aetherbeast with a plan is just... ridiculous. They’re predators, not tacticians. They act on instinct, not logic. You’ve heard the stories, same as me.”

“Exactly,” Grunhilda said, leaning back with a satisfied grin. “And the stories always end the same way—with someone dead. This one just got interrupted by Solenne before it could finish the job.”

“Then why didn’t it fight her?” Caelum asked, his voice sharper than he intended. The words hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.

Grunhilda’s grin faltered, and for the first time that night, she looked uncertain. “Well... I don’t know. Maybe it knew it couldn’t win against her?”

“Or maybe it wasn’t there to win or lose,” Caelum said, his voice quieter now, almost to himself. “Maybe it wasn’t there for a fight at all.”

The fire popped, a loud crack that made all three of them jump slightly. Grunhilda chuckled nervously, but the unease in her eyes was impossible to miss.

“Alright, enough of this,” Faeruhn said, shaking his head. “It’s just a story, and even if it isn’t, it’s not our problem. If this... Nightstalker or whatever it’s called is real, that’s for the priestesses and the champions to deal with. We’ve got our own problems to worry about, like those raiders up ahead.”

Grunhilda nodded, her usual confidence returning. “He’s right. We’ve got a battle coming, and we’ll need all our wits about us. Leave the ghost stories for the fireside, farm boy.”

Caelum didn’t respond, his thoughts still tangled around the possibilities Grunhilda’s story had conjured. An aetherbeast that spoke. That spared. That might have had a reason for what it did. He didn’t know what to make of it, but one thing was certain: if the stories were true, this was no ordinary aetherbeast.

And that scared him more than he cared to admit.