Nero slipped past the guards like a ghost, his heart hamring against his ribs.
The Veil of Darkness clung to his shoulders, its presence both comforting and unnerving. He could feel it draining his Ein Sof, a slow but steady trickle that reminded him he was doing sothing very dangerous.
The segregated camp was larger than he’d expected.
Over a dozen tents arranged in a rough circle, with the largest positioned at the center. Torches burned at intervals, casting flickering shadows that danced across the dull canvas. Large war horses continued grazing, oblivious to his presence.
Nero moved carefully between the tents, avoiding the patches of light. His boots pressed softly against the grass.
He paused at the edge of the first tent, pressing himself against the canvas as two Templars passed nearby. Their armor clinked softly with each step.
Nero held his breath.
The Templars stopped just a few feet away from him. For a terrifying mont, he thought they had sensed sothing. His hand drifted toward the Silver Blade at his hip, though he knew drawing it would be suicide.
Then one of them spoke.
"How much longer do you think we’ll be stuck out here?" The voice was muffled by the helt, but distinctly human.
"Orders are orders," the other replied. Then he sighed,
"We could be here for weeks. Months, even."
Nero’s brows tightened.
What was this?
It was a regular, rather mundane conversation, one he had thought would have been impossible between Templars.
"My back is killing . I haven’t taken this damned helt off in three days."
The other Templar snorted, "What’s with all the whining?"
The Templar sighed,
"I’d kill for a proper bed right now. And a drink."
"What are you talking about? You are a Templar. It is forbidden to drink."
He let out a dry chuckle,
"Fair point."
They resud walking, their conversation fading as they moved away.
Nero exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. The exchange had been so mundane, so startlingly normal, that it almost made him forget what he was doing.
Almost.
He continued moving through the camp, keeping to the shadows and the gaps between tents. As he went deeper, he began to count.
By the ti he reached the central tent, Nero had counted one hundred and twenty Templars in total.
The number was not very impressive.
One hundred and twenty warriors of the Crimson Crucible, each one capable of cutting down Abominations with terrifying efficiency. While he didn’t want to doubt their efficiency, the power of the horrors within just Malady’s Garden was far greater than what a hundred and twenty warriors could handle.
Nero studied them as he moved. None of them had removed their helts. Not a single piece of armor had been shed, despite the discomfort he’d heard in that brief conversation. They ate with their helts on, spoke with their helts on, even rested with their helts on.
It was unnatural.
The more he observed, the more questions ford in his mind. Why the secrecy? Why the isolation?
The Templar who had carried the woman’s corpse erged from between two tents, heading directly toward the central structure. Nero followed, careful to maintain distance while staying close enough to slip in behind him.
The entrance flap hung open for just a mont as the Templar ducked inside.
Nero darted forward, using Shadow Shift to close the distance in an instant. The world blurred around him as his speed rose.
The Templar frowned, feeling a slightly strong gist of wind from behind. He turned slightly then ignored it before dropping the rent flap.
Inside, Nero pressed himself into the far corner, behind a stack of supply crates and rolled canvas. The shadows here were deep enough to hide him even without the Veil, though he was grateful for its additional protection.
The tent was spacious. A massive table dominated the center, its surface covered by an enormous map that dwarfed the one Nero himself had.
The map showed entire regions in ticulous detail. Roads, forests, rivers, and settlents. But what caught Nero’s attention were the markers scattered across its surface.
Wooden figures painted in different colors. Red ones clustered in certain areas. Black ones marking other locations. Blue ones forming lines and patterns he couldn’t decipher. Each one held in place by small paperweights shaped like crosses.
Nero’s eyes traced the movents, trying to make sense of the positions. The red figures seed to represent Templar forces. The black ones...
Abominations?
His attention was pulled away from the map as voices reached him.
Four figures stood around the table, their discussion already in progress when the Templar with the corpse had entered. Now, with his arrival, they paused.
The first wore similar armor to the other Templars, but with a distinctive golden star emblazoned on his chest piece. The star caught the torchlight, gleaming with an almost holy radiance.
Two more Templars flanked the table, their armor standard crimson but no less imposing.
The fourth figure stood apart from the others. He wore flowing white robes that seed to shimr in the dim light, and in his hand, he held a golden scepter topped with an ornate cross. His face was completely obscured by a white cloth mask, revealing nothing of his features.
Nero felt a chill run down his spine just looking at him.
The Templar with the corpse moved forward and unceremoniously dropped the body onto the floor near the table’s edge. The dull thud of flesh hitting packed earth filled the tent.
None of them flinched.
The Templar with the golden star let out a long sigh, his mask tilting slightly as he looked down at the corpse.
"Another one?"
The Templar who had carried it nodded slowly. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Fifteenth one today. If things continue as they are, we might have to carry out a purge."
Nero’s blood turned to ice.
Purge.
The word echoed in his mind like ringing church bells. His breathing beca shallow, careful not to make any sound that might give away his position.
What did that an? A purge of what? Of whom?
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