A Sergeants tome, hidden deep in the Garrison.

[Dugs]

He has been told that writing down one's thoughts is a good exercise—a way to vent feelings privately. But to what end? Surely, no one will ever see these words. So, what value do they truly hold? They will remain unseen, unknown, unappreciated. Yet, perhaps that is fitting. Such is the life of Rhuk Nor.

All he has ever done, all he ever tries to do, is the Work. It is what defines him, even as it weighs upon him. He followed the wrong orders once, and it led to chains—to captivity under a Necromancer. Salvation came not from his own strength, but from a one-eyed Sergeant. A good man. Better than he. For moments before rescue, Rhuk Nor had removed his armor, resigning himself. He did not wish to die a Janissary, convinced that he had become something cruel, something vile. A tool of evil.

Yet, what are the Janissaries if not laborers of fate? They do not shape the Work; they simply see it through. Cruelty or virtue is not theirs to decide. All there is—is the Work.

So he labors. He slew a Balestriere? That was the Work. He stands as the Banda Rossa threatens their own citizens? That, too, is the Work. But when does one stop holding the stone? When does one throw it through the wall?

These questions churn like sandstorms within him. He does not recognize himself in their chaos. How has he fallen to this place? How has Rhuk Nor succumbed to bloodlust, to this craving for vengeance? Each day pulls him further into spite, into pettiness, into revenge. These are not the pillars upon which he built his life. And yet... now they shape his shadow.

Perhaps there is still a way out, a path back to the man he was. But for now, he knows this much: the Legates fear the Banda Rossa. The people fear the Banda Rossa. But Rhuk Nor does not. Fear is a stone too heavy to carry. And if the Banda Rossa insists on shaping the game with their violence, then Rhuk Nor will play.

The Work continues. The cycle of death turns.

And he will see it through.

[Dugs]

More to write, more to practice. Perhaps he should write of what he has done—the little good of it. Rhuk Nor entered Ephia's Well some four months ago now. He wandered in sorrow, his path marked by quiet tears. The one called Iakmes—his cohorts—attacked Rhuk Nor.  They left him alive, though he cannot say why. Perhaps they simply forgot to plunge the spear as he lay defeated on the ground.

He awoke some time later, in a haze. His Groknak was dead. His friends were dead. There was nothing he could do. So he did the only thing he could think of in the harsh sands: he took from the Groknak one last thing—the Tooth. Massive and mighty, it is a thing he treasures still. A reminder he will never forget.

A kulamet came upon him then, walking with him for a time. The stranger told him stories of a god, of these Spokes Rhuk Nor knew nothing of at the time. Even now, his knowledge remains sparse. They walked together for a while, but eventually their paths diverged. Rhuk Nor's path led him to Ephia's Well.

A refugee. A wanderer. He made friends with a scholar, a wizardly man named Isachus. Perhaps he was the first to dedicate time to Rhuk Nor, teaching him the way of writing, of reading, of words. Before this, he relied on stories and song. Writing feels harder—its emotions are more difficult to convey. Even now, it is a medium he struggles with.

Isachus joined the Rose, becoming a Balladeer. He pressured Rhuk Nor to join him, but Rhuk Nor wished to speak with others first. Even then, the Banda Rossa were foul creatures—a fat man with a crossbow picking at his teeth, while the Sisters offered kindness. The Balladeers, though... two of them claimed themselves to be gods. He does not recall one's name, but the other—Aurelio—left a stronger impression. A man so full of himself, boasting of past victories. Suppose they all do, to be fair. But Aurelio's arrogance grates. He speaks down to Rhuk Nor, and when Rhuk Nor responds, the man takes offense. Rhuk Nor has stopped trying to understand him.

For a week, maybe two, Rhuk Nor roamed the Well, asking how he could help the most people possible. His search led him to the Fourth Legion. Misfortune surrounded them—a troubled past of deaths, mistrials, mistreatment. Yet Rhuk Nor believed he could change such fates. Perhaps he still does.

For now, this is enough. The stone is heavy. The words heavier still.

[Dugs]

The desert is a hard teacher, and Rhuk Nor wonders if he is learning the wrong lessons. Too much bitterness has crept into his heart, like sand finding its way into every crevice of armor. Kula does not speak of peace for the gentle, but nor does he demand fury without wisdom. Rhuk Nor walks a fine edge, knowing he must temper the blade within before it dulls itself useless. Toss the ash

Today, there was friction with the Bailiff—words heated enough to forge steel but yielding no better result. Rhuk Nor stood ready for consequences, thinking the Lieutenant's hand would sweep him from the ranks like refuse from a parade ground. But Kula favors the bold, perhaps, or luck smiled on Rhuk Nor today. The dismissal never came, toss THE ash. Still, Rhuk Nor knows such fortune cannot be relied upon twice.

The weight of Luther Donisthrope's antics hangs heavy still. Rhuk Nor sees much waste in the man's violence and arrogance, a festering wound to any semblance of order. And that Recluta, vanishing into shadow—who whispers the truth of that tale? TOSS THE ash. Rhuk Nor suspects much, but proof slips through his fingers like desert winds.

Yet Kula teaches to endure. The scalding heat will fade to night, the bitter ache in Rhuk Nor's bones will pass if he allows it. He must learn when to grip the scythe and when to let it rest upon the ground. The path is not easy, but Rhuk Nor does not seek an easy path. No, that is for lesser men.

TOSS THE ASH

Rhuk Nor walks forward, unbowed but weary. Perhaps tomorrow, the winds will bring something better, perhaps tommorow, he'll find the Scorch so many accuse Colmes of taking. And if not? He will endure.

[Dugs]

Words spoken with the new Wyld Walker, when asked on why he follows Kula.

"Rhuk Nor follows Kula because she is life, raw and unyielding. the desert knows no mercy, no pause, no promise of comfort, and neither does she. She is the roots that cling to cracked stone, the storm that tears the sky wide open, the first green sprout after fire turns the land black. She teaches that strength isn't in walls or swords, but in bending without breaking, in enduring without losing yourself.

Life out here is cruel and beautiful in the same breath. Rhuk Nor's seen enough death to know it's always close, just beyond the next dune. But Kula? She's the one who whispers, 'Not yet.' She's the will to keep walking, even when your boots are worn thin and your throat's dry as ash.

Some gods ask for blind faith, but Kula offers a simple truth: endure, grow, and when it's time, return to the dust that birthed you. That's enough for Rhuk Nor."



Today, Rhuk Nor walked beneath Kula's watchful gaze, they mistake her gentle breath on the fields for weakness. Fools. Life is not gentle—it is wild, resilient, and relentless. She pushes us, she tests us, only the strong may rise to her challenge, only the resilient live through them.

Kula teaches balance but never complacency. From the root that splits stone to the desert bloom that dares the scorching sun, her lessons are carved in blood and ash, the only things we're promised. He wields the Tooth not to end life, but to shape it, to clear away rot so that new things may rise.

Victory against the ash-beast was earned, not given. A hundred vials gone, but that's the work. The Tooth bit deep into its foul heart, and Kula smiled upon our labor. Ephia's Well stands safe tonight. But Rhuk Nor knows well that peace is fleeting. So long as ash stirs on the wind, the Tooth will remain sharp.

We do not fear storms; we shepherd life through them.

[Dugs]

The work does not end.

Durgin Doomed-Oath is dead. A pain in his side, a voice too loud in war councils, a man who would rather spit than speak plain—but a warrior nonetheless. A warrior who fought for what he believed in. A warrior who bled for it. A warrior who died for it.  Will not curse his name now, not when his corpse feeds the land.

Three others died alongside him. Their names should be written down, carved in stone, shouted from the mountains—but they will not be. They will be forgotten, as so many others before them. The Well drinks deep, but it never remembers. This one will remember.

Four thousand dead by this hand in the Scald. It should mean something. It should feel like something. But it does not. No songs are sung, no walls are raised in his name. The people of Ephia's Well do not know, and if they do, they do not care. Superiors send orders, not gratitude. To them, it is as the desert wind—constant, unremarkable, unnoticed unless it stops.

But he cannot stop.

It is not for them that he wade through the blood. It is not for them that he lifts the Tooth and sever flesh from bone. It is done because it must be done. Because this place, this parched and dying thing, still needs warriors. Real warriors. Not the cloying pretenders who drape themselves in steel and titles, who hold their blades for show, who march in circles and call it a campaign.

Rhuk Nor is one of the last great warriors of Ephia's Well. And that is not a boast. That is a burden.

Yet there is one in this Well who still fights true. Al-Basri, fierce, relentless, unyielding. A warrior in full, not just in word but in deed. In a land of pretenders, she stands. He has fought beside her, bled beside her, seen the fire in her eyes when steel meets flesh. She does not waver, nor does she break, and for that, he is grateful. A friend, maybe his only true one. A rare thing. One he does not take lightly.

If there is any justice in this place, her deeds will be remembered long after the dust has swallowed the rest. And if there is any remaining? He will be as Kula demands.

Ash.

The work does not end.

[Dugs]

The work does not end. But Rhuk Nor does.

Pain is his only companion now. It does not leave, does not wane. It is a fire that does not burn out, a weight that does not lift. Each step is heavier than the last. Each breath feels stolen from something that should have already claimed him.

His superiors will not weep. They will not mark his passing with honor or grief. To them, he was a tool, a hammer they swung too hard, a blade dulled from overuse and discarded without a second thought. A stain on the Legion, a relic of something they would rather forget. Let them. Their names will pass like whispers on the wind, but the scars Rhuk Nor carved into the sand will last longer than their words.

Four thousand dead by his hands. A number without meaning. The Scald is still there, still churning out more enemies, more blood, more death. What was it all for? Ephia's Well does not care. The people do not care. The Legion will march on without him, its banners raised high, its leaders pretending they never spat his name.

Kula does not promise peace. She does not promise kindness. She promises only that all things end. Perhaps that is the lesson he has failed to learn until now. Perhaps this was always meant to be his fate—to fight until he could not, to bleed until the sands swallowed him whole.

There is no future. No glory. No redemption. Just the weight of the scythe, the ache in his bones, and the whisper of the wind, carrying his name away like dust.

The work does not end. But Rhuk Nor does.

One more fight. One more battle.

Bet Nappahi, awaits.

[Dugs]

Abulmahhu lies broken behind us. The wall fell. The gates turned. The Scald runs red.

Rhuk Nor led the Fourth forward, as was his place. The work was hard, but it was done well. The line held. The gears turned. The orcs came in waves and were sent back into the dust. The Tooth bit deep, again and again, until the ground could hold no more of their blood. Victory. Clean, without loss. Few battles end so neatly.

And yet, something lingers.

He watched as they burned the tree—a thing older than any of us, older than the stones we die upon. It watched us, but spoke no words. The flames rose, and the streams dried, and the green withered in the heat. All of it gone in a moment, with no thought to why it stood or what it guarded. Perhaps it was necessary, it has to be. But Rhuk Nor has learned that even weeds serve a purpose, but? It is still a weed.

Still, the work remains. The Fourth did what it was told. The enemy was broken, the tower turned to ash. And when the next call comes, Rhuk Nor will answer it.


Victory, yes. But some victories leave a bitter taste.

[Dugs]

How many times will he say it? Just one more battle. Just one more march. Just one more enemy to cut down before the work is finished.

Rhuk Nor has spoken those words too often to count. Whispered them as dawn broke over bloodied sands. Told them to others who did not live long enough to repeat them back. Promised himself that the next fight would be the last, that Kula would let him lay down the scythe and tend to quieter things.

But the fighting goes on, and Rhuk Nor with it. Perhaps this is all that was ever meant for him. The Well needs a hand to hold the wall, and so he holds it. For now.

Sometimes he wonders if there is more. Wonders what it might be like to sit in the shade of a garden and speak of things that do not bleed. To have company that does not vanish at the end of a blade. To rest beside those who understand the weight without needing to carry it.

But the truth is, the weight is part of him now. Those who try to come close would only be burdened by it. He has seen too many good people buried beneath someone else's war. Kula teaches that not everything that grows is meant to last. Some things are only here for a season, and some are meant to be cut. Rhuk Nor has started to think his season is the long march from one battlefield to the next.

What future waits for him? One day, the bones will creak too loud, and the wound will not close, and the sand will cover what little is left. The Well will carry on, the work will fall to another, and Rhuk Nor will be forgotten, as all things are.

But not yet.

So he tells himself the same lie he has told a hundred times before. Just one more battle. Then rest. Then peace.

And until then, the Tooth stays sharp.

[Dugs]

The law bends. The law twists. The law says one thing one day, another the next. Words are spoken, then swallowed. Decrees given, then undone. What use is an edict if it can be reshaped at a whim? What is law when its foundation is built upon shifting sand?

Rhuk Nor watches as the Legates play their game, words slipping like oil between their fingers. They say what is needed in the moment, then deny it when it no longer serves. A recanting here, a contradiction there. Those who wield power shape truth to fit their needs, and when the truth no longer fits, they simply discard it.

He had thought exile was a sentence that carried weight. That to cast one out from the Well was to leave them to the desert's judgment. But now? Now it is an invitation to die. Exile does not mean justice. It means execution without the sword being swung within the walls. A body left to rot beyond sight, so those within may keep their hands clean.

The Absolvers slew a Wyrm cultist today. A man the Legate had asked to see tried. But exiles do not return to be judged—they die in the sands, as they always have. The courts will not hear their names, no sentences will be passed. A law that is spoken yet never honored is no law at all.

Rhuk Nor does not find satisfaction in it. There was no justice in that death. Only inevitability.

Meanwhile, the war marches forward, indifferent to who wields the blade. Others step into the Scald, eager to leave their mark, to carve a legacy from the bones of the fallen. They count their dead, tally their triumphs, whisper of records broken. But what is it they chase? The title of the greatest killer? The finest butcher? Is that a name worth carrying? A distinction worth holding? Let them take it. Rhuk Nor has walked that path long enough to know the weight does not lessen with glory, only with time. It has been weeks since his scythe last met flesh, since the battle haze last settled over his vision. If they are only now catching up, then perhaps they have not thought long on where that road leads.

The Well carries on. The walls still stand. The law still shifts, ever uncertain. And Rhuk Nor remains, watching. Waiting. Holding the line, as he always has.

[Dugs]

To those who would read this, though none ever will, let this be known. Rhuk Nor has done his work. He has led the Fourth where it was needed. He has held the line. He has broken blade after blade upon the tide. He has fought, and fought, and fought again. And for what? A wall still standing? A city that does not care? A war that will never end?

Perhaps it is time. Time to step away. To let another lift the burden. To hand the cloak to hands that do not tremble from the weight of it. If that is what is best, then so be it. Let this be his resignation. Let this be his final act of service.

But that is a lie. This one cannot leave. He has given too much. Too many debts still unpaid. His life is not his own to walk away from. He was saved once, when he did not deserve it. Now he serves, whether he is wanted or not.

He could throw down the scythe, cast off the cloak. And then what? Walk into the sands and wait to be swallowed? There is no end but the one the work allows. The Fourth took him in, saved him from himself, and now he belongs to it. The thought of quitting is a fantasy, one for softer men with lighter burdens. This one has no such luxury.

So the words stay hidden. The truth remains buried. And Rhuk Nor will march when called, as he always has. Until the Well has no need for him, until the work is done. Until there is nothing left to hold.


Alongside this posting, there is a formal letter, folded at the middle, hidden away deep in the tome.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

To the Honorable Bey, to Lieutenant Colmes,

It is with great deliberation and a heavy heart that Rhuk Nor submits this resignation from the Fourth Legion. He has served as best he could, given what strength he has. He has fought beside his brothers and sisters in the Well, bled in the sands, and done the work that was asked of him. There was a time when he believed this work to be enough. Perhaps it was once. Perhaps it still is. But he no longer knows.

There is no shame in service, but there is shame in knowing when to step aside and failing to do so. A soldier who cannot see beyond war is a soldier who should not lead. And Rhuk Nor has forgotten what lies beyond the battlefield. If the Well requires blood, there are others who can spill it. If the Fourth requires leadership, there are others who can take the mantle.

Rhuk Nor does not leave in anger. He does not leave in regret. He leaves only because he fears he can no longer serve as he once did. The burden has become weight without purpose. And so, he releases it.

If this resignation is accepted, Rhuk Nor will leave as he arrived—without ceremony, without expectation. If it is refused, then he will march when called, as he always has. The work does not wait. And neither will he.

Sergeant Rhuk Nor
In service to the Well, under the Sultan's gaze and the Bey's wisdom.

[Dugs]

Another march. Another ruin. This one in Arslan. It was no great victory, no glorious thunder of heroes breaking through steel. It was a trap, tight and clever, built to bleed us out. And it nearly did. Rhuk Nor lost count of how many times his breath stilled in his chest, how many times his blade swung one second too slow.

Colmes was there. Ekret, too. Four battles now they've bled through together, and Rhuk Nor is not foolish—he knows that luck cracks. One day, the blow won't miss. One day, they won't all walk back. But it was not today. Not yet.

There was one who didn't make it back. A Chief—Qen. A speaker of Kula, one that Rhuk Nor could not protect. Another name for the ledger. Another death to weigh the scales. He thinks on it now. If all he could do was throw himself onto those traps to save him—should he have? Or is there still some greater weight to his survival? Some piece of this war that only he can carry?

The Warmaster? She stayed home. Did not take the field, but found breath enough to whine on the bellows after the work was done. A title with no weight. A mouth that's never tasted dust. Rhuk Nor will follow orders. He does not follow cowards.

Al-Basri could not come. That, too, sits heavy. Once, they were blades in tune. Now, her eyes cut deeper than steel. No longer does it feel like equality. Now it feels like being watched. Measured. Judged. Perhaps she is right to do so. Perhaps not. But it hurts all the same.

Colmes is Colmes. Steady. Cold. Dependable. The work passes between them like a grindstone—neither turning from it, neither easing up.

And Rhuk Nor? He continues. Because he must. Because the work does not stop. Because the Fourth still stands, and until it falls—or he does—he will do what he can. Even if no one remembers. Even if none care.

Let others write their laws, chase their records, bark their politics. This one will hold the line. Until there is nothing left to hold.

Kula has carried him through worse. Through wounds that would not close, through nights with no sleep, through years with no thanks. She does not promise peace—but balance. And Rhuk Nor clings to that balance, even as the blade grows heavier. Bet Nappahi awaits. Another march, another battle. But perhaps the last. At least for him. The work may soon be done. And if not, then he will see it through, until the dust takes him back.


Sergeant Rhuk Nor
In service to the Well, under the Sultan's gaze and the Bey's wisdom.

An additional note makes it's way to the paper.
Azarmidokht never made good on that favor he owed Rhuk Nor....

But, it is better this way. A bad finger to have pointed at him with them watching.