Two months later.

The Fens of the Martyr Scholars stretched out for miles, a swampy marshland that formed around the pools glutted by snowmelt. It was a bleak place. Few flowers grew here, the delicate petals choked out by throttling grass-vine and the occasional twisted thorny tree clustering around the few low hills that provided some protection from the driving winds of winter.

Winter was getting closer. The height of summer had passed, but even as autumn neared, the heat lingered. A muggy warmth clung like a second skin, one which did nothing to protect against the cloying mist full of insects that hung over the tall grasses.

It was not a happy place.

Mordred knelt atop one of the hills and contemplated the fate of those who'd fallen here. The insects left him alone, the power he radiated repelling them more surely than a roaring fire. In his mind he contemplated the nature of this unnatural place.

These fens were formed not of the Guiding Star's plan for the world but of violence and death.

It was the resting place of many of the faithful, who, when driven out of the Atlantean lands by the world-walking Demon, had sought to protect the sacred knowledge. Their sacrifices had ensured that some of the most ancient texts of the Church had survived, but so much was lost to the mindless wrath of the Demon.

Outside of Atlantis itself, the greatest loss occurred here.

The Scholars had managed to smuggle their goods out of Atlantis even as it sank beneath the climactic battle between the Hallowed Prophets and the Demon. They'd slipped across lands via secret paths, supported by the kind hands of hidden believers. In their hands were the artefacts, the ritual censers, the illuminated texts that spoke of the Guiding Star's majesty. It was their purpose and intent to create a hidden enclave, a secret place to recuperate.

It wasn't to be.

Mordred's eyes fell upon a great pond that sat in the middle of the fens. He could still sense the lingering power of Mercy. His blessing told him a great many powerful souls had passed away there. The power lingered even now. The texts spoke of how the Demon had arrived and blasted the once verdant and fertile land to pieces, starting with the humble church that sat amidst their nascent town.

The Scholars stood no chance against the Demon. She had sunk an entire city—what was their collection of shacks and stones? In an hour, what they had once named the Fields of Hope became this place.

A land the clueless locals called 'the swamp of scorn'.

"It's bloody humid and hot, can we get a move on?" a now too familiar voice grumbled behind him.

"Priest Tobias, we are at a hallowed place," Mordred admonished.

"Paladin Mordred, our guidance is to be the model of discretion. You kneel here looking at the well-known grave of our honoured fellows. It is a contradiction. How would you explain it if we are seen?"

"I am a 'cultivator of death glamour'. I find when I offer up that minor heresy that the questions stop quickly," Mordred grunted, and Tobias chuckled to himself, taking the honest observation as a joke, as was the man's style.

"We are meant to be returning to the Saint's company. I think the men are all keen to see her radiance again, to get the benefit of the keep before we set out again on our divine mission."

"And I suppose it will be to me to report the failure again? That we have seen hide nor hair of this lost relic, and found only heresy and monsters?" Mordred sighed. Their last discrete venture had been without reward or challenge. They were getting better at looking, but finding nothing.

"Please, I know how you delight in bringing the light to the deserving. She appreciates your dogged faithfulness, and I'm sure will be looking forward to your company again," Tobias smiled, his gaze flickering over the Paladin's blonde hair, blue eyes, sharp cheekbones and square jaw. The Priest chose to give no voice to why else the Saint might appreciate the Paladin's company.

"You're giving me that look again, like the time you asked me to model for the statue."

"The artisans needed a model for their work, and you are very good at staying still," the Priest smiled.

"It is called praying."

"The Saint even came down to check upon the art and was most taken with your devotion." Tobias smiled, keeping to himself the exact talents the Saint had complimented.

"She has been most supportive of my faith," Mordred nodded. The Saint had discussed his faith a few times with him in private, a source of jealousy among the other Paladins. It had resulted in a single 'Rite of Tempering', a ceremonial duel meant to help forge their souls into steel through battle.

Mordred had taken pleasure in strengthening his opponent's soul by beating the avarice out of it.

"I believe she would not be against hosting a private prayer session with you."

"That would be presumptuous of me. She is beyond I." Mordred paused. The Saint had mentioned something of the sort last time they spoke. "Do you think I should request such a boon?"

"I cannot divine the thoughts of those so far beyond me, but I sense that you'd be surprised by her enthusiasm." The Priest wore another of his unreadable expressions. His words were pure and untainted, but still carried with them a sense of deception.

Mordred sighed and stood, ending his contemplation. The Paladin of Mercy was not well suited to deception, and no matter how Tobias grated upon his sense of propriety, he was glad to have such an ally. The Priest had settled into his heretical disguise like he was born to it. They had been campaigning together for some few months at this point, and every time his mask had slipped the Priest had been there to smooth things over. The man had a silver tongue, able to find the right mixture of inventive threats and honeyed words to shield them from suspicion.

Mordred had only thrice brought Mercy fools who'd heard too much.

The pair walked down the hills to join the huddled group of 'Squires' who'd been waiting for their 'Knights' to return. As a just and righteous man, the lies and fakery ate at him, and he'd tried to get into the habit of thinking in heretical terms so as not to blurt out the truth by accident.

It helped that none of them looked like members of the shining host at the moment. Their faces were splattered with mud, their bodies wrapped in roughspun grey cloaks devoid of identity, and with armour left dull and scratched, they looked like a band of Knights Errant. The lowest of heretics, the five of them travelled as one of the many rough groups in search of a master, when they weren't resorting to banditry or other petty evils.

They didn't even have horses. Beasts touched by the divine were far too costly a thing for those of their station to own, so they had to stomp their way across the mountains in search of the lost relic, hunting for any hint of its power.

That's why they needed the Paladins and Priests. A lesser believer might be able to sense such power, but only when touching it with their blessing directly. But to the anointed? The power rang as clear as a bell. The relic should still have a touch of divinity, that power that one only became aware of when raised to Iron. The power that bled from things created by the heretics was different to something created by a true believer. While there might be innumerable enchanted creations in the hills, the only things blessed by the Guiding Star would be what they carried with them.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

And the relics carried by those brave Scholars so long ago.

"Onwards to our rendezvous," Tobias called, and their weary group moved out. "Warm beds and good food soon!"

A ragged cheer piped up from behind them, and Mordred stifled the urge to sigh.

"Are you truly immune to the call of such simple luxuries, Sir Mordred?"

"We are taught, 'suffering makes us stronger and brings us closer to the divine'."

"One must practise thanks for the small mercies of this mortal coil, lest the embrace of the stars leave us without the capacity to give proper thanks," Tobias quoted back merrily. Mordred tried to ignore that the Priest's memory for scripture seemed directly tied to how permissive it was of his excesses.

"I give thanks every day, but I do not seek kindness or warmth, so I may be truly appreciative when the Star decides to put such mercies in my path," Mordred growled.

"I was never suggesting that you lacked a virtue, my good Sir. Virtue shines from you in all directions."

The group moved through the fens, using the islands and a touch of their power to cross the battered landscape. Mordred thought often of how it would've been to stand before such power that the land itself was carved apart on such a grand scale. Would his faith remain as stalwart as it was now?

Eventually, after wending their way through hidden paths, they found their way to the low hills that stretched up to the mountains surrounding the fens. Here, the trees were thicker, the wind didn't scour exposed skin, and the smell of the fetid water eased.

In a hidden valley was their outpost. Formed by those blessed by earth and stone, it was a small keep with several outbuildings. Everything was simple and functional, without decoration if you didn't include the writhing vines and spiralling trees that the nature-blessed had coated it in to hide it from observation. That was if someone somehow managed to penetrate the sacred rituals the clergy had layered over it to protect it from the heretics' view.

"We should go report."

"We should go bathe." The Priest began to push him towards the bathhouse.

"I have to make my report. I have no need of such—"

"If you're still thinking of a private prayer session with her, I assure you a bath will be essential. Besides, she's made it clear in the past that she appreciates cleanliness."

"You are right. Thank you, Tobias." Mordred sighed.

An hour later, Mordred waited to be summoned by the Spear Saint. Despite his earlier protests, he couldn't deny he felt more at ease now he was clean. He missed his full raiment and other vestments that had been his uniform for so many years, but a clean set of leggings, shirt and jerkin made him feel more himself.

The halls were solid stone, raised from the mountains in great sheets and formed into shapes. Thin, defensible windows let the air flow, helping minor rituals of sanctity ensure the keep remained cool. It seemed frivolous to Mordred, but he couldn't deny that it helped motivate the men.

There were some markings of their faith here, more than when he last visited. Now the keep was done, it seemed those tasked with its construction had started to add small details to better reflect their piety.

The doors before him were imprinted with a sign of the Guiding Star. It was without colour, but subtle elements of the patterns within the stabbing rays emanating from the star itself told him which Ray was which. He appreciated that no Ray was longer than another, a clear sign of the collaborative effort of the Crusade.

"Enter." A silken voice called. Mordred felt power reaching out and caressing him. The Saint's faith was truly a marvel.

Mordred strode forward, entering the Saint's private chamber. The room was warm and filled with finery. In the rolling swamp and bare stone of the mountains, it was as if a section of the majestic capital had been transported here. The walls were covered in thick tapestries showing the moments of spiritual triumph, the furniture was dark wood with gold leaf to highlight artful craftsmanship. And the woman who lay reclined on a long couch upholstered in red velvet, with details picked out in pearls, was the very image of one of the great Saints who would occasionally parade through the cities to remind the faithful of their power.

Genevra waited for him in a beautiful linen dress trimmed with lace, delicate and thin enough in places that the warm colour of her skin could be seen through it. Mordred felt a blush start, and he had to recite a short bit of scripture to avoid impure thoughts. She lounged, watching him over a pair of silver goblets that rested on the table before her.

"Saint Genevra, this humble Paladin presents himself before you." Mordred provided the ritual greeting, kneeling before her to show his respect.

"You know, I have often thought that the phrase 'humble Paladin' was an oddity. One states they are humble and then immediately shares a title that implies power and authority. Yet with you, Mordred, I have finally met a Paladin who lives up to such an introduction."

"I am blessed to have you witness my sincerity."

"Please, come be seated. I have, in respect for your taste in austerity, picked my least comfortable chair to offer you, but I refuse to have you stand." She was smiling at him. It was the look a particularly playful cat might give a mouse.

"As you wish." Mordred didn't blush, but he did regret his earlier suggestion to remain standing or kneeling in the Saint's honourable presence.

"Now, let us handle the most pressing matter first. Report."

So Mordred went through all the details. How they had slowly worked their way through the latest mountain, looking for signs of the relic. He didn't try to hide their failings, and he knew that if Priest Tobias were here the report would paint them in a far more flattering light. The report was little different to the ones that had come before.

They approached one of the mountain holds, those petty kings who claimed authority over meagre piles of masonry and a scant handful of muddy towns. If there were believers behind the walls, they'd slip in with their help. If there were no believers, they'd sneak in after dark and complete their business under the cover of night.

Once inside, they'd spend a day or two around the town looking for a trace of the relic. Tobias would undoubtedly find a tavern or other such place of ill repute and harvest all manner of gossip and tall tales, while Mordred would patrol around, trying to find his way close to their hidden vaults.

Most times they were mere locked rooms with some guards, but even when they'd scraped up some pathetic heretical rituals, none of it could stop his senses. So it was that he was confident no relic was hidden among the scraps of wealth they thought worthy of such grand protection.

So far, Mordred had checked eight towns in the last two months, and with one false alarm where a minor artefact was recovered, they'd had no success.

"One new thing to report. Despite having no great skill in collecting information, even I could not miss that people are talking about the Order of the Round Table." Mordred clenched his fist. "They sing songs venerating them and mocking our great works. I heard a most vile and inaccurate song about an Inquisitor named Ulfast."

"Vile, maybe, but inaccurate? Well, it is not good to speak ill of the dead," Genevra muttered to herself. She then paused. "Continue. Ask the question that I know sits on those sculpted lips of yours."

"Can we not search them out? I understand they are interfering with our work. They are but a small group."

"You are not the first to ask this of me. They are a nuisance. At first, I considered building them into our disguise, but they are spreading across the land like a pox, and drawing their attention would undermine our goals. Their numbers are few, but they are supported by powerful forces."

"I…" Mordred bit his tongue. He'd nearly quoted scripture at the Saint, but she knew the texts better than he. "I would like to seek them out. Surely we could assault them tactically, draw them somewhere and crush them."

"Don't be so sure. They are talented individuals, and I could not aid you. Fae-loving Steels watch over them from a distance. They are also frustratingly good at making connections with the petty kings. Their absence would be noted."

"What is their goal?"

"They seem to live up to their ideals, in their heretic way. They root out monsters and bandits, they take little from the mortals, never raiding or plundering. Yet I can't shake the suspicion that there is something more. Just as we are given this mission, they appear. It is something the clergy are keeping an eye on."

"My report is complete, then." Mordred nodded, pausing to wait for his dismissal.

"Good, good. Now let us give thanks for your return." The Saint purred. Mordred decided it was time to take a risk.

"I am thankful, Saint. I also have a request. I would appreciate your instruction in a prayer session." He bowed as he spoke, showing proper deference.

"Paladin Mordred, are you suggesting I give you some private instruction?"

"Forgive me for my presumption… Priest Tobias suggested that you may not be against giving me some personal attention." Mordred felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle.

"Well, that settles it. He is now my favourite Priest, and you, young Paladin…" She leant over and ran her hand through his hair. The touch sent a jolt through his whole body. "Well, we'll see if you can become a favourite of mine as well."

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