A Warning in a Reunion

PRELUDE

Holden Cross, known to most as Gryphon, ambled down an endless road led by a dying lantern. His armor was worn thin and his purpose lost. Once seen as a symbol and a leader, he was now a fugitive drifting aimlessly through Heathmoor. Weeks earlier, in a nameless roadside tavern, a stranger had approached and studied him as though assessing an old blade left to rust.

“Just forget it, Old Man,” Gryphon muttered to himself, jaw clenched. He tried to wrestle the weird memory into submission, but something about it sparked his imagination and poked at his pride. The stranger offered Gryphon an incredible set of armor so he could change the world. “Foolish fantasy,” Gryphon mumbled. He vaguely recalled their debate about how to put an end to the Khatuns’ fake peace and usher in a new era of glorious battle across Heathmoor. “Crazed prophesizing...” he spat, suppressing the notion. But suppose he had entertained the offer – suppose there was even a sliver of truth to anything the stranger said… “Is it worth it if every good warrior has already given up?” Gryphon stared out into the blackness before him and wondered. “No, I am just a man.”

PART I

Heathmoor had changed quickly, with the Mongol leader, Guljin, expanding her dominion like a virus over the land. Gryphon had failed to convince his fellow Chimera freedom fighters not to submit. Once proud to call them allies, he became disgusted by their compromise after the defeat of Horkos, resenting their excuse that Guljin’s version of peace was good enough. Then, refusing to bow himself, he pulled a hood over his head and disappeared. He became reclusive but never stayed in place for too long. If any Khatun patrol or rowdy drunk caught him on a bad day, his boiling temper would certainly draw unwanted attention. But hearing rumors that the Khatuns now occupied Harrowgate, the stronghold where he was born, Gryphon felt compelled to set out and witness the truth for himself. He needed to understand why so many people had stopped fighting.

The gates were open – that was new. Gryphon remembered the regular cadence of assaults upon Harrowgate during every harvest, but he supposed there was no need to close the gates now if security was ensured by the Mongols. Even so, it didn’t sit well with him. He briefly hesitated, considering the risk if he was somehow identified. “Just die on your feet, not your knees,” he concluded. Walking through the main square, Gryphon tried to remind himself of the history of the place. He considered the sieges and wars that had left their scars here, but what surrounded him – or rather what was missing, spoke of more nuanced damage. His nostalgia for living among chivalrous Knights and aspiring to his grand moment in their endless battle was replaced with a new warped reality.

A quiet, dim emptiness hung in the air over people who seemed like ghostly shells going about their lives, devoid of any passion in their eyes. He watched seemingly content people talk in hushed conversation or stand patiently in line for portioned rations doled out by Mongol overseers. Meanwhile, the Knights that Gryphon remembered as the living backbone of the stronghold were still scattered about, but to his dismay, they stood guard and patrolled the streets alongside the Khatuns. Gryphon could hardly contain his anger... This was the peace his old Chimera brethren had settled for and deemed “good enough”?

Scraping his mind for any memory to reaffirm that it wasn’t all just a delusion, Gryphon recalled the massive steel brazier at the center of Harrowgate that burned in perpetuity. He looked back fondly on gathering around it for warmth and light, while listening to larger-than-life tales told by heroic Knights, then he quickly raced up the main road. After speeding past a suspiciously silent patrol of Khatuns, Gryphon sharply cocked his head when he finally saw it. The brazier had been abandoned as a forgotten monument, left to sit as a cold vessel of ancient ash. As he reached out and rubbed some of the grit between his fingers, a menacing group of tall shadows spilled over his shoulder.

“It is almost curfew. Clear the street now, or you will be detained,” a Khatun guard growled. Gryphon checked his mounting anger and silently turned.

“Did you put out the fire?” he asked with a slow, venomous tongue. The question rang out and reverberated down the street, catching the attention of several onlookers, who had nearly forgotten the sound of dissent. One among them, a weathered mountain of a man, whose strong arms spoke of days working the land, squinted at Gryphon and wandered closer.

“I said clear the street, now!” the Khatun’s final word was accompanied by an elbow to Gryphon’s bare temple, causing him to stumble and reflexively wind-up a returning blow. But before he could strike back, the old farmer softly gripped his shoulder and ushered him away.

“Come now, friend. Pay the old coals no mind. Besides, we need our rest for the fields tomorrow. I’ll even let you feed the sheep,” he said, calmly aiming the words behind him at the Khatun. Gryphon held their gaze for a moment but played along and went with the man.

“I know your voice, but it once belonged to a proud warrior. You cannot be…” Gryphon trailed off, confused. He peered at the sunbaked peasant’s broad shoulders as he was led down a path to a lone farmhouse and suspected this man had once been more than a simple farmer. The evening began to chill as they loitered under an awning, now free of any watchful patrols.

“I am surprised you managed to survive this long with how quick you are to start a fight. But then you always were a stubborn bastard, Holden,” the man smirked at Gryphon in a burst of leathery wrinkles.

“Stone?! I cannot believe my eyes…” Gryphon tried and failed to hide his shock. The man standing before him had been a close friend and fought heroically by his side on the battlefield once upon a time. They had vowed to become legends, but now all he saw was a shameful disappointment.

PART II

“I will double your count within the hour, Holden,” Stone bellowed confidently. Time felt slow as Stone slammed his flail against an enemy Raider’s helm and flipped him backwards to a prompt death. Rejoining Holden, the young men barreled forward like an unstoppable wave. At his friend’s challenge, Holden’s determined gaze fell upon four daunting Vikings ready to intercept them. Pulling ahead of Stone, Holden’s armored frame twisted and flew over the plains like a predatory metal eagle. With a leap, he burst into their center and heaved his poleaxe in a complete circle of sharp suffering.

“You ought to adjust your calculations, Stone, or fetch a larger flail!” Holden laughed deeply from the center of his ring of corpses. Despite their enthusiasm, this battle had not begun in their favor, but thanks to their little competition and coordinated partnership, the tide was turning.

“Perhaps history will remember the tale of this battle with an embellishment or two – at my suggestion of course,” Stone winked at Holden as he played decoy to a crazed Berserker, then orchestrated their swift execution in a united assault.

“Perhaps we fight… so that there will be no need of embellishment. Perhaps… we vow to be remembered for generations to come – to be more than just men!” Holden hefted each word in each swing of his poleaxe as it cleaved through swaths of enemy Vikings.

Stone erupted in a hysterical, explosive laugh. “My friend, you have my word!”

PART III

Gryphon didn’t believe in spirits and had never seen a ghost. But as he sat in Stone’s farmhouse and looked at his old, defeated friend in the flickering candlelight, he felt haunted by the memory of what he desperately wanted to see. A different face. A different figure. One that hadn’t fallen so low. One that hadn’t compromised.

“You gave your word, Stone,” he snarled.

“What do you know?! If you had been here, if you had defended Harrowgate from dozens of attacks every year, you might be relieved the gates are open now! You might appreciate the change if you stopped craving war and pining to be a hero!” Stone lashed out; his calm demeanor was only surface deep after all. After a deep breath, he quieted. “You are slave to an endless cycle, my friend. The reason you fight is lost to the ages – and still you fight. How much longer do you think men like us really have? We should live simple lives now. I have some land, Holden, you could work with me.”

It took Gryphon a moment to make sense of the idea. Staring into a dark corner of the room, he gazed unblinking into the blackness and feared how much his own flame had similarly faded. But Stone was doing just fine, really. He was right; it would be simple to live out his days here and let Guljin be a problem for someone else to solve.

CRUNCH. Stone gracelessly flinched at a sound outside and peered out the nearby window. “Just the sheep,” he muttered. But the small tick – habitually reacting like an abused animal in fear, was enough to make Gryphon feel sick and sorry for witnessing it. He would not live out his days safe yet afraid.

“I must go,” Gryphon shot up from his stool, suddenly electrified.

“Where? The Khatuns will kill you for breaking curfew—” Stone blurted out.

“Their concerns are about to change,” Gryphon blazed as he charged to the door.

Stone halfheartedly blocked his way, tried to match Gryphon’s eyes, but backed down and stared blankly at the floor. “What can one man do?”

EPILOGUE

“I will use it well,” Gryphon said as he lowered the beaked helmet over his head. He hadn’t heard his voice echo against metal like this in what felt like a lifetime. A lifetime of travel, hard-fought battles, and witnessing firsthand what Heathmoor once was – what it could be again. He had survived to see more than most ever would in this world, and perhaps that was what the stranger meant, saying only he could take on this task.

It was the greatest armor he had ever beheld, and strangely, it was always warm – almost like it was alive. A Gryphon, dragon, and unicorn adorned the tabard, but the stranger merely chuckled when asked about their significance. They told Gryphon that this was just the first step in something bigger. Though it remained unclear if they shared the same understanding of what that meant. Gryphon was still hellbent on washing away the shame of Stone and all others who accepted Guljin’s reign. He would ignite the future. But not as Gryphon.

“I am just a man, but I must be more if I am to succeed,” he reflected on the nagging truth that even Stone had realized. The stranger did not share the same opinion that such a state was final or insurmountable. No, they were confident Gryphon would transcend it and usher in a new era of change in Heathmoor. But it would require more warriors to rise. They would have to be reminded of glory and only he could make them long for it. “To make them crave it – at any cost, I will become The Scorching Herald. And when that hunger returns… Peace will burn!”