Brother Alarich spent much of his life writing down the names of those who died fighting the Order. At first, he thought this was an act of mercy.
A soldier could die alone in a ditch, under the rubble of a broken wall, or in a field whose name would never be recorded. His body might be buried and his belongings shared out, but if his name reached Alarich’s table, a part of him would still remain.
Alarich wrote each name with care, noting the brother’s rank, where he died, and how he fell. He also recorded if the body was found, if last rites were given, or if any final words were left with the Order.
To Alarich, no man should be forgotten if he died for the Order. This was the duty of an Ordersschreiber.
Others carried swords, quizhous, and crossbows. Many others rode for the Order, raising the Teutonic banner at captured forts. Unlike those, Alarich carried ink. He kept track of orders, maintained casualty lists, and turned history into a record for those who had not seen it themselves.
The work was not glorious, but Alarich never wanted glory. He joined the Order because he believed in its purpose.
The lands of Citramaria were split by feuds, enemies, and men who talked about freedom but fought against any law or anyone who tried to restrain them. The Teutonic objective was clear. It brought discipline where there was chaos, hierarchy where there was doubt, and a single purpose so men would stop fighting only for themselves.
Helfen, Wehren, Heilen.
Help. Defend. Heal.
By hospital beds, Alarich cared for the wounded and spoke those words to them. At trenches where the dead lay, he said them again. He repeated those words to shaken volunteers and to civilians who came to Teutonic camps for help.
The Order wasn't merely an army. It was a structure built in the middle of chaos. Above it all rose the Father of Understanding.
Alarich did not imagine the Father as an old man in the clouds, as others did. To him, the Father was the idea that made sense of chaos. The Father was the reason for obedience, the wisdom behind hierarchy, and the indication that no one person could know enough to rule without making mistakes.
A soldier saw only the enemy in front of him.
A commander saw the whole field.
The Order saw the war itself.
The Father saw the reason for the war.
Alarich believed this with certainty that kept him going. He trusted in the Father when the Order entered Citramaria. He held onto this belief when the first Levantine strongholds resisted. He believed it when the wounded came to him and when the names of the dead filled page after page.
He believed it on the night he first met the orange-haired marksman.
The battle had ended before sunset, but the wounded continued to arrive throughout the night.
Inside the medical tent, Alarich moved between them, treating those he could and recording the names of those who could not be saved. That was where he first noticed the young Skirmisher sitting alone beside one of the wooden supports.
The soldier had not yet earned the reputation that would later follow him across Citramaria. His armour was covered in mud and blood, and his Vallistra rested beside him. A strip of cloth had been tied around his upper arm, though blood had already soaked through it.
Even in the poor light, his orange hair was impossible to ignore.
“You have not been treated,” Alarich said.
“It is not deep.”
“Shallow wounds can still become infected.”
Alarich crouched beside him and removed the cloth. The wound was not serious, but the bandage had been tied too tightly. As he began cleaning it, he noticed the soldier’s hand shaking.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
“Then try to remain still.”
Outside, other soldiers celebrated their victory. Some sang while others boasted about the enemies they had killed.
The marksman did not join them.
Alarich noticed the empty spaces where bolts had previously been held across his equipment.
“How many times did you fire?”
“Four.”
“And how many struck their targets?”
“Three.”
The first had fallen near a broken wall. The second had been running towards the trees. When Alarich asked about the third, the marksman hesitated.
“The last one saw me,” he said. “He looked directly at me before I fired.”
The young man had been told that the Levantines were murderers who hid among ordinary people and killed without judgement. Yet the man he had killed looked frightened and was younger than he expected.
“Does it become different because I was ordered to do it?” he asked.
Alarich remembered that question for years afterwards. At the time, he answered without hesitation.
“An order does not change what happened. Those men are still dead, and it was your hand that released the bolts.”
The marksman looked as though Alarich had confirmed what he feared.
Alarich placed a hand upon his shoulder.
“But discipline gives violence a purpose. Without discipline, a man kills because of anger, fear, or pride. Under rightful authority, violence serves something greater than the person using it.”
The marksman had not chosen those men because he hated them. He had stood where the Order placed him and trusted that those above him understood more of the battle than he did.
“And what if they were wrong?”
“Then the burden belongs to those who gave the order.”
The marksman’s hand slowly stopped shaking. Alarich believed he had comforted him.
“Rest. The Father of Understanding sees more than either of us.”
“May He guide us.”
“And may we have the discipline to follow.”
Years later, Alarich remembered that conversation whenever he opened the Black Ledger.
The orange-haired soldier soon became known throughout the Order. Stories spread about shots made across valleys, through narrow windows, and from positions so distant that the target never saw him. Teutonic soldiers pointed him out upon the ridges, while Levantines learned to watch for his orange hair beneath a hood.
Alarich met him several times after that night.
The marksman became quieter as his reputation grew. He did not celebrate his kills or carve marks into his weapon. He cleaned his Vallistra, counted every bolt, and listened carefully whenever a commander spoke.
He was patient, disciplined, and obedient. He had become exactly what the Order wanted him to be. For a time, Alarich was proud of him.
The first record that troubled Alarich concerned a small settlement taken early in the invasion.
The original account listed eleven Teutonic soldiers killed, twenty-three wounded, and seventeen enemy fighters dead. Two days later, the official report listed only seven Teutonic soldiers killed and fourteen wounded. The number of enemies slain had risen to thirty-one.
Alarich believed it was a mistake.
Reports written during battle were often incomplete. Soldiers counted bodies twice, confused the missing with the dead, or witnessed only one part of the fighting. Numbers often changed after officers reviewed them.
Alarich requested the original statements so that he could compare them. They never arrived.
Instead, the amended report returned with an official seal. He was ordered to copy the new numbers into the permanent record. He obeyed.
The next problem involved six prisoners brought into the camp. Alarich recorded their arrival because one of them required treatment.
Three days later, all six were dead.
The official report said they had attempted to escape while being transferred and had been killed while resisting. Alarich saw their bodies before they were buried. Two still had marks around their wrists where they had been tied. Another had been struck in the back of the head.
He asked one of the guards whether the prisoners had been untied before trying to escape. The guard did not answer. Alarich still recorded the account he had been given.
That night, he told himself there could be an explanation. Perhaps the report was incomplete. Perhaps the prisoners had tried to flee while restrained. Perhaps the guards had panicked.
The Order was large, and no organisation was free from mistakes. One dishonest report did not make the entire mission dishonest.
Then came a village described as an Assassin stronghold.
The original scouting report described a farming settlement beside a road. It had no walls, no armed patrols, and no confirmed Levantine presence. One traveller claimed that armed men had passed through several weeks earlier.
That was all.
The Order entered the village at first light. By midday, much of it was burning.
The final report described a fortified Assassin position. It claimed that Levantine fighters had resisted the Order and that the inhabitants had willingly supported them.
The two reports did not describe the same place. When Alarich searched for the original scouting report the next morning, it was gone. After that, he began making copies.
At first, he used loose pieces of parchment hidden among ordinary records. He copied the names, numbers, and statements that had been changed.
He did not believe he was collecting evidence against the Order. He believed he was protecting the truth until someone with greater authority could correct the mistakes.
That difference mattered to him. Alarich still attended prayers, treated wounded soldiers, and maintained the records entrusted to him. When others questioned the campaign, he defended it.
He believed that corruption could exist within the Order without destroying everything it stood for.
A cruel guard did not condemn every Teutonic soldier.
A dishonest officer did not make the entire campaign unjust.
A false report did not erase the truth behind their mission.
He only needed to place the evidence before the right person. When the loose pages became too difficult to hide, Alarich found a small book bound in black leather. It had no title or symbol upon its cover.
Inside it, he copied the original reports beside the official versions that replaced them.
Names disappeared.
Prisoners became enemy soldiers.
Defeats became planned withdrawals.
Civilian homes became Assassin positions.
People who had never carried weapons became armed collaborators after they died.
One entry concerned a failed Teutonic assault. The original report described confusion, broken formations, and heavy losses. The final account claimed that the retreat had been deliberate and had drawn the Levantines into a trap.
There had been no trap. There had been no counterattack.
The Order had retreated and achieved nothing, yet the dead were recorded as men who had fallen during a successful operation.
The same phrases appeared throughout the records:
- Confirmed Assassin position
- Armed collaborators
- Resistance encountered
- Necessary action
Settlements became strongholds after they were destroyed.
Civilians became enemies after they were killed.
Prisoners became fighters once they could no longer speak for themselves.
Alarich realised that the records did not simply preserve the history of the campaign. They decided what that history would become. Even then, he believed the problem could be corrected from within the Order.
Alarich requested a private meeting with a Marschall responsible for several of the records. The Marschall received him inside a building that had once belonged to a local official. Teutonic banners covered the old symbols upon the walls, and a map of Citramaria rested across a large wooden table.
The Marschall did not ask Alarich to sit.
“You requested private counsel.”
“Yes, Herr Marschall.”
“You said it concerned the campaign records.”
Alarich placed several copied reports upon the table.
“These accounts do not match the reports first delivered from the field.”
“Reports written during battle are incomplete.”
“These are more than corrected numbers. They change what happened.”
“You were not present during these battles.”
“I spoke with men who were.”
“Men see only parts of a battle. Command sees the whole.”
Alarich recognised the words. He had once said almost the same thing to the orange-haired marksman. He showed the Marschall the report concerning the village.
“This settlement had no confirmed connection to the Levantines before it was attacked. The final record calls it an Assassin stronghold.”
“A courier was captured nearby.”
“After the settlement was destroyed.”
“Then the suspicion was correct.”
“Afterward?”
The Marschall looked at him. Alarich knew he had gone further than expected.
The Marschall argued that the Order could not always wait for perfect evidence. A farmer did not need to carry a hidden blade to shelter an Assassin, and the Brotherhood did not announce every refuge it used.
“I understand that evidence should come before punishment,” Alarich said.
"In peace, perhaps. But this is war.”
Alarich thought of the prisoners who had died with marks around their wrists.
“And the records? Must the dead become different people because war makes the truth inconvenient?”
The Marschall gathered the papers.
“You misunderstand the purpose of the archive.”
“I believed its purpose was to record what happened.”
“Its purpose is to preserve what must be understood.”
“Are those not the same thing?”
“Not always.”
The Marschall explained that soldiers did not need to know every doubt considered by their commanders. Captured settlements did not need stories showing that resistance could weaken the Order, and the Brotherhood did not need records it could turn against them.
“These records are not being written for our enemies,” Alarich said.
“All records eventually reach someone.”
The Marschall ordered him to destroy his private copies, surrender anything else he had taken, and return to the duties suited to his position.
“This is my work.”
“No. You are reaching beyond your position. The Order permits you to record the decisions of commanders. It does not permit you to question them.”
“What should I write when I know the account is false?”
“What you are given.”
“And if I know it did not happen?”
The Marschall lowered his voice.
“Then you will remember your place.”
Alarich left the chamber with the Black Ledger hidden beneath his robes. The copied reports remained behind.
For several days, he tried to convince himself that the Marschall had acted out of pride. Perhaps he was protecting the officers beneath him or feared punishment and embarrassment. Alarich prayed that the records would be corrected quietly. They were not.
Instead, access to the archive became more restricted. Reports stopped reaching his table, others arrived already sealed, and guards began checking what scribes carried when they left the command building. Alarich understood the warning. He continued writing.
At night, he copied records before they could be removed. When taking parchment was too dangerous, he memorised names and numbers until he could enter them into the Ledger. His faith did not disappear at once. It faded slowly.
Alarich still believed that understanding was better than ignorance, that discipline could protect people from cruelty, and that order could bring peace to lands divided by war.
He no longer knew whether the Teutonic Order served those beliefs. The answer came in a report describing a battle that had not yet happened.
The document carried the correct seals and used the formal language of a completed operation. It described a settlement along the eastern route as a confirmed Levantine refuge.
Its inhabitants had supposedly armed themselves, resisted questioning, and attacked the Teutonic soldiers sent to secure the road. The report praised the Order for defeating them, listed the buildings destroyed, and described the deaths of armed collaborators.
Spaces had been left at the bottom for the final casualty numbers. The soldiers assigned to attack the settlement had not yet left the camp. Alarich checked the date twice.
The excuse had been written before the battle. The resistance had been recorded before anyone could resist. The inhabitants had been declared guilty while they were still alive.
Until then, Alarich believed the false reports had been written to hide crimes after they happened. Now he understood that some of the reports came first. The crimes came afterwards. The lies were not hiding the campaign. They were part of how the campaign was planned.
Alarich copied the report into the Black Ledger. His hand remained steady until he reached the words armed collaborators.
The point of his quill tore through the page. Outside, bells summoned the soldiers who would carry out the attack. Alarich closed the Ledger.
He gathered clean cloth, dried food, medicine, and a water skin from the medical stores. He left his ceremonial clothing behind and wrapped the Black Ledger in oiled cloth beneath his outer robes.
He did not request another meeting. He did not report the matter to another commander. He no longer knew how far the lie reached. He had already seen what happened when the truth was given to men who feared it.
Alarich left the camp before evening prayers. He travelled ahead of the Teutonic soldiers along smaller paths through the hills. He was not a scout. He slipped upon loose stones, caught his robes upon branches, and stopped whenever he heard movement behind him.
He reached the settlement at nightfall.
The people did not trust him. They saw the black cross upon his clothing and believed he had come to announce their surrender. One man raised a farming tool against him, while a woman pulled a child behind her and asked which homes the Order intended to search.
Alarich told them the truth. The search had already been recorded. The battle had already been won. Their guilt had already been written into the Teutonic archive. Some called him a liar. Others asked why a priest of the Order would warn them. Alarich had no answer that did not sound like shame.
He had recognised the truth too late. He had copied too many false reports before refusing to write another. He had once told a frightened young soldier that responsibility belonged to those who gave the order.
Alarich opened the Black Ledger and showed them the prepared report.
Most of the settlement still refused to leave. Their homes, animals, and belongings were there. Some believed the Teutonics would only question them. Others feared that fleeing would make them appear guilty.
Alarich could not force them to follow him.
Before sunrise, only a small group agreed to flee. They included several civilians, two wounded travellers who had been staying in the settlement, and a child from one of the families named in the report.
The wounded were placed upon a rough cart. Everyone carried what little they could. When smoke appeared behind the hills, no one spoke. Alarich did not turn around. The Teutonic record would already have an explanation for the fire.
The group travelled west, avoiding the main roads and patrol routes. Alarich knew that Castle Rust stood somewhere upon Fallow Mire, though most of what he knew came from Teutonic reports. He no longer trusted those reports to distinguish between a fortress, a ruin, or a village.
A Levantine courier found them two days later.
One moment, the road ahead appeared empty. The next, a hooded figure stood among the stones with a weapon ready. The civilians stopped. Alarich raised his hands.
“I carry records taken from the Teutonic command.”
The courier looked at the black cross still fastened to his clothing.
“You also carry their symbol.”
“I have not yet earned the right to carry another.”
“You believe a stolen book will earn it?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
Alarich looked back at the civilians and wounded travellers.
“Because the Order has already written that these people are dead.”
The courier did not lower the weapon. Alarich removed the Black Ledger from beneath his robes and placed it upon the ground.
“They intend to write the same about many others.”
The courier examined the pages. The copied seals and names showed that it was not an ordinary book.
“Castle Rust,” Alarich said. “Can you guide them there?”
“I can guide the group.”
“And me?”
“That will depend on what follows you.”
The first Watchman appeared before midday. A dark shape crossed the sky behind them. At first, it resembled a bird. Then it turned, revealing the glider stretched between the figure’s arms. The courier moved the civilians beneath the trees. A second Watchman appeared above another ridge.
They did not attack.
They did not need to.
Their purpose was to find the group and report its direction.
Alarich knew what would follow. The Watchmen would mark their path. Ground patrols would close the roads. Skirmishers would take positions upon the ridges.
The official account would say that a traitorous priest had stolen Teutonic information and joined a Levantine cell. The wounded travellers would become armed fugitives. The civilians would become Assassin collaborators. The child might disappear from the report entirely.
The presence of the Levantine courier would be used as proof that every accusation had been true.
Alarich had spent years recording such stories after they happened. Now he watched one being prepared around him.
The land rose as the group approached the path towards Fallow Mire. Stone ridges stood above the narrow route, and the courier kept everyone close to the rock where they would be harder to see.
Then Alarich heard a quiet sound from above. A ranged weapon being prepared. He stopped walking and looked towards the ridge.
A figure lay near its highest point, partly hidden by stone and a Teutonic cloak. A weapon rested before him, aimed towards the path below.
For a moment, Alarich hoped the Order had sent an ordinary Skirmisher. Then the figure moved.
The fading light touched the hair beneath his hood. Orange stood against the grey stone.
Alarich knew that hair. He knew the soldier holding the weapon. He knew the discipline he had once placed inside that man’s hands.
Of all the soldiers the Order could have sent to kill him, they had chosen the one man who would not miss.*