Aaron wandered the trenchline alone, his boots squelching through half-coagulated mud, relic ash, and the faint shimmer of miracle runoff. The fires were still burning, but they were low now—controlled, steady and reverent. Like the trenches themselves were breathing easier.
It was the first time since waking up a Saint that no one was screaming, praying, or flinging themselves at him in religious ecstasy. For once, he wasn't healing, leading, or accidentally vomiting sacred fluids.
The soldiers weren't bowing anymore, they were rebuilding without his help.
Pilgrims hammered broken relics into trench walls like scripture. Crucible engineers repaired flamer-ports with quiet reverence. A Redemption squad was arguing about how best to calibrate their relic-bayonets without invoking any minor saints. Even the Mendelist Ammo Monks were humming cheerfully, engraving reload prayers onto magazine casings like this was just another workday at the sacred bullet plant.
Aaron stood by a cracked embankment, watching them.
They didn't need him right now.
The war went on—but this front was holding. Not because of a miracle, but because of them.
He let out a long breath, wrapping his patched relic-cloak tighter around his shoulders.
"…Maybe it's time."
He turned, trudging toward the command trench.
It was time to get ready for the damn parade.
The sun was a dull smear over the eastern ridge when Aaron gathered what now officially counted as his order. The Ashborn.
He climbed atop a rusted weapons crate, immediately regretted it because it made him wobble dramatically, and tried his best to look... Saintly.
He failed.
"Uh, Ashborn?" he called, voice cracking halfway through the name.
Six hundred pairs of eyes turned to him.
He instantly regretted everything.
Aleric, standing to his right with his Codex open, gave him a subtle thumbs-up and mouthed You're doing great. Which didn't help.
Aaron cleared his throat and tried again.
"So. Uh. Hi."
The wind blew.
A single Crucible Walker coughed. Which sounded more like a hydraulic hiss and a pipe giving up.
Aaron rubbed the back of his neck. "We're going on parade."
A few troopers blinked. One Redemption private tilted their head, clearly unsure if this was metaphorical or just really, really stupid.
Aaron pushed on. "I know, I know. Most of you probably didn't sign up to be marched into a cathedral like some kind of walking relic exhibit. But they asked for us. All of us."
The soldiers didn't move, but they were listening. That was worse.
He scratched at his scalp, brain scrambling for something inspirational. "Look, I'm not... great at speeches. Or leadership. Or… trench theology."
Murmurs.
"But now you're my guys. And if I'm getting paraded around like a blessed piñata, then I want you there beside me. Not because it's some ecclesiastic protocol—but because we burned through hell together. We built this Order from ash. We are the Ashborn."
He exhaled.
Then added awkwardly, "So, uh… dress your relics nice, I guess? We roll out in half an hour."
The Crucible Walkers gave a slow, synchronized nod. Pilgrims muttered short prayers. A Redemption sergeant gave a single, stiff salute.
And just like that—they were marching with him.
Holy crap, Aaron thought. I think that worked.
As the soldiers dispersed to prepare, Captain-Forgelord Rhest of the Crucible Walkers approached. His armor hissed softly, and his helm's vox-grille glowed faintly with furnace light.
"Saint Grave," he said, removing his helm with reverence. "Most of our brothers will follow later. We must first secure Father Dren's remains and return them to the Forge-Shrine of Sanctorum Pyra."
Aaron nodded, thankful for the reprieve. "Of course. He deserves the full rite."
Rhest's scarred face softened. "He believed in you. Even when we weren't sure what we were seeing. You carry more than fire now. You carry his legacy."
Aaron, throat tight, just nodded.
They clasped forearms, old soldier's code. And Rhest turned to go, flanked by the remaining Crucible contingent and the reliquary bearers that still guarded Father Dren's body like it was the sun itself.
He found the others near the command trench.
High Cruciger Lueth stood tall despite the ash-caked robes and half-melted relic-lantern on his shoulder. His armor was cracked, his face lined with soot and sermon scars, but his posture remained a beacon.
Saint-Captain Hema leaned against a barricade, arms folded, helm under one arm, her warhammer resting against the ground like it weighed nothing. She looked ready for another fight and annoyed it hadn't come yet.
Confessor-General Holwen was last to arrive, coat tattered, relic-pistol low-slung, face unreadable.
They stood in a rough triangle, each facing Aaron as he approached.
"Well," Lueth said. "You lived longer than expected."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Aaron replied.
Holwen didn't say anything at first. Then finally:
"You're ready, then."
Aaron nodded. "I think I am."
Holwen exhaled through his nose. "Then this is where we part. For now. Lueth and I will stay. Reinforce what's left of the front."
Lueth inclined his head. "We'll hold the trench. You carry the name."
Hema rolled her shoulders. "And I'm stuck here too. My troops are less mangled, so apparently I'm the babysitter now."
She scowled. "Don't suppose sainthood lets you write transfer orders?"
"Nope," Aaron said.
"Figures."
There was a pause.
Then Aaron, very awkwardly, raised a fist.
The three officers stared at him.
He coughed. "Uh… where I'm from, this is a farewell gesture. You bump fists."
Holwen raised one eyebrow like it might climb off his head and leave.
Lueth tilted his head. "Symbolic contact?"
Aaron nodded. "It's, like… a sign of mutual respect and/or last-minute bro solidarity."
"…Fascinating," Lueth said. "Primitive, but charming."
Hema just rolled her eyes and punched his knuckles like a hammer hitting armor.
Holwen stared. Then extended his hand. It was stiff, mechanical. Their fists touched like relics politely clinking in a display case.
Aleric, standing to the side, was already writing in his Codex.
"New Order Protocol," he murmured aloud. "Traditional farewell shall henceforth involve an open-handed gesture of solidarity—codename: Fist of the Flame."
They were almost ready to depart when a voice rang out, shrieking through the still morning air.
"SAINT GRAVES, YOU ABSOLUTE BASTARD—"
Aaron whirled, and two medics came sprinting around the trench corner, arms flailing, as a one-legged woman in soot-covered armor practically launched herself off a medic cot and stumbled toward them.
"You're just going to leave me?!" Trenaxa roared, one boot half-laced, eyes blazing like divine retribution. "You're marching off with half the Order—and my entire command squad!"
Behind her, the Redemption troopers she'd once commanded had the decency to look sheepish. One of them tried to duck behind a Pilgrim but got elbowed in the side by a nun.
Aaron stammered. "I-I thought you were still under—"
"You thought wrong," Trenaxa snapped, grabbing a trench post for support. "I've died twice already this week. I can walk. I will walk. And I will join your Order, because apparently I already did by osmosis."
She turned to her former subordinates, who flinched under her gaze.
"Any of you want to tell me when exactly you defected?"
The Redemption troops saluted in perfect synchronicity. "For the Saint, ma'am."
Trenaxa turned back, expression sour but resigned. "Well. There goes my leverage."
Aaron raised both hands. "Fine. Fine. You're in. Welcome to the Ashborn. Please don't hit anyone."
"Too late," one of the medics wheezed in the background, bent double from a glancing shoulder slam.
The sun climbed higher, and the column formed at last.
The Ashborn stood in formation—a strange, sacred mess of Crucible veterans, trench pilgrims, Redemption zealots, converted officers, and one dangerously under-rested Saint wrapped in a blanket of holy ash and flustered sarcasm.
They marched.
Toward the relic train waiting past the ridge.
Toward Virex-Cathedralis.
Toward fire and banners and the weight of becoming legend.
Behind them, those not sworn to the Ashborn stood and watched.
Pilgrims pressed relics to their lips.
Scribes wrote furiously, recording each step like it was a miracle.
And in the command trench, Lueth, Hema, and Holwen stood side by side.
"They'll carry the name," Lueth said quietly.
Holwen nodded. "And the war with it."
Hema folded her arms. "And I get to stay here because my troops didn't die fast enough. Outstanding."
Holwen glanced sidelong. "We could trade."
"Don't tempt me."
Lueth turned away, lifting his Iron Lantern. "If the gods will it, we may meet again."
The smoke took them as the last of the Ashborn passed the ridge.
Ash hung in the air like memory.
And the fire, as ever, kept burning.