The Dragon Throne stood empty. Smoke still curled from the ruins of the upper citadel. Rubble choked the inner wards. The scent of ash, blood, and alchemical flame lingered even days after the storming. The banners of Zhong lay in tatters across the cobbles, half-buried beneath corpses bloated and split.
Victory had no celebration.
Altan walked in silence through the remnants of war, the black cloak of command brushing scorched stone. Beside him moved Chaghan, captain of the Stormguards, eyes still bloodshot from the final charge. Behind them followed the Stormguard wardens and officers—silent, armored, and smeared with dried gore. They passed the gate where Zhuan Fei fell, the arch where fire consumed the imperial standards, the spire where prisoners begged for death.
They passed them all.
Their destination lay beyond the palatial ruin, in what once had been an orchard. Now it was a hospital—if the word still meant anything. Rows of black tents formed the shape of a cruciform wound. Inside them, the Stormguard Hospitaliers worked.
Altan had founded this order during the Second Gale-Zhong Campaign. In the middle of a war that had devoured legions, he had descended into the Sea of Mind—a labyrinth of ruined monasteries, drowned vaults, and half-buried knowledge. There, from the dust of broken shelves and the whisper of fading echoes, he extracted what remained of medicine, surgery, and the art of anatomy. From the dead wisdom of a forgotten world, he forged the Hospitaliers of the Stormguard.
Each field hospital served one Stormguard legion. Warrior-healers clad in black linen robes, veiled masks, and head coverings worked without pause. Their gauntlets bore clamps and marrow spikes. Their sabers were sharpened for both incision and death. Trained in the Silent Core Path and forbidden anatomics, these were no gentle caretakers. They had survived the Trial of the Hollow Helm—bone-deep surgery without anesthetic, followed by combat in the pitch dark. They preserved life inside the tents. They spilled blood outside them. That was their vow.
Some warriors whispered they feared the Hospitaliers more than the enemy. Mercy did not live here. Efficiency did.
The tents reeked of antiseptic, burnt flesh, and blood thick enough to chew. Inside, groans became prayers. Screams never lasted long. Healers moved with calculated swiftness. Bones were set or broken again. Flesh was stitched or carved. Sigils flared as amputated limbs were sealed or regrown. Some returned whole. Others didn't return at all.
And some, it was said, returned better.
Altan entered the main pavilion. The wounded saluted as best they could. One had no arms left. Another blinked blindly with glyphs over his sockets. A boy wept softly as a Hospitalier stitched muscle to bone.
Altan did not speak of glory. He did not praise their sacrifice. He did not pretend their suffering served a higher purpose. He placed his hand on one man's shoulder—seared down to raw muscle—and nodded.
"You will be made whole."
They needed no more.
The Stormguard wardens moved among the beds, murmuring quiet warnings:
"Train harder, so you won't lose the other limb."
It wasn't cruelty. It was creed.
And maybe a little motivational speaking.
Some of the wounded whispered they wished they had died in battle.
Others, hearing the next round of jokes from the wardens, whispered it louder.
"Lost your sword arm? Good. Now you can finally learn to parry."
"Your leg's gone, brother. But look on the bright side—you'll never fail inspection for footwork again."
One Hospitalier snorted once. Then resumed stitching a lung shut.
There was no room for pity. There was barely room for humor. But what little could be spared, they weaponized.
The Hospitaliers worked on. One reached for a cauterizing spike, pressing it into a wound without hesitation. Another performed a delicate reattachment—severed leg, still twitching, threaded back to nerve and marrow. The smell of sizzling blood mingled with poultice rot. Nothing was wasted. Every soldier was a resource. Every part recoverable—except the head.
Only death could not be healed.
Rumors had spread that even eunuchs could be restored. No one dared ask Altan directly. No one doubted he knew the answer.
Outside the hospital, squires stood watch, waiting for word of their masters. They did not cry. They did not pray. They waited—silent, rigid, eyes fixed on the bloodied thresholds where Stormguards were carried in on stretchers or not at all.
If their master lived, they served without hesitation: carrying armor, fetching poultices, sharpening blades, or standing vigil through the night. That was their duty—to serve, to train, and to become the next Stormguard. In these early years of the order, nothing was ceremonial. Every bruise, every command obeyed, was part of the Crucible's promise: to forge warriors no kingdom could break.
If their master died, the squire returned to the Warden of the Chasm, bearing the broken armor and weapons. No words were exchanged. They waited—either to be assigned to a new Stormguard or to be sent back to the Crucible to begin again.
Altan watched them only once before he turned back toward the field hospital. The work was not done.
No thrones would be rebuilt here.
Only men.
And not all of them would remain human.