The Curseborne Rise, pt. 1

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 870

When Nathaniel Xolo was born with the rare ebony night scales of the Ora'Kresh people, the church itself celebrated his arrival. His scales were considered a blessed omen among the Ecclesiarchy. Myths and legends spoke of what it meant to bear the ebony night scales—how they caught moonlight like the sun reflecting off a mirror. This was always viewed as deeply sacred, for the sun god Rykke, who stood at the center of Ora'Kresh prayers, was believed to love the moon goddess Cambia above all others.

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 885

The Testing Chamber of the Sacred Flame hummed with anticipation as fifteen-year-old Nathaniel stepped onto the marble dais. Carved runes glowed softly beneath his feet, responding to the mana that flowed through every living thing—or so the masters claimed. Around the circular chamber, priests and cardinals sat in tiered seats like judges, their golden masks reflecting the ceremonial flames.

"Begin with potency," instructed Proctor Nelthrak, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Channel your inner strength into the flame."

Nathaniel placed his hands on the crystal sphere at the center of the dais. The moment his ebony scales touched its surface; the chamber flooded with blinding light. Gasps echoed from the gallery as the crystal blazed like a captured star.

"Remarkable," whispered Cardinal Vorthak. "I've never seen such raw power."

In the candidates' section, Charles Broadus whooped with excitement, his copper scales gleaming as he bounced on his toes. "That's my best friend!" he called out, earning a sharp look from the proctors.

The Essence test came next. Nathaniel's reserves proved equally impressive—the measuring crystals overflowed with captured mana, revealing both vast capacity and rapid regeneration. The versatility assessment showed his potential across all known spheres of magic: combat, healing, creation, destruction, divination.

"Unprecedented," breathed Archdeacon Miraleth. "The prophecy speaks true—he bears the mark of ultimate power."

But then came the Versatility test.

"Now," Proctor Nelthrak said, setting a simple practice stone before Nathaniel, "demonstrate your control. Light the flame within."

Nathaniel stared at the stone. He could feel the mana burning inside him like a furnace, could sense the magical potential that made the very air shimmer around him. But when he reached for it, tried to shape it, guide it into the stone...

Nothing.

"Take your time," Nelthrak said gently after a long moment. "Perhaps a different approach—"

Nathaniel tried again. And again. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained against the invisible barrier between intention and action. The mana was there—oceans of it—but he might as well have been trying to grasp water with his bare hands.

In the gallery above, whispers began. Confusion first, then doubt, then something that sounded dangerously like disappointment.

"I don't understand," Nathaniel whispered, his voice cracking. "I can feel it. It's right there, but I can't—"

"Zero versatility," Proctor Nelthrak announced quietly to the chamber. "The candidate possesses no ability to manipulate mana."

The silence that followed was deafening. Fifteen years of prophecy of celebration, of preparation—all crashing down in a single moment.

Broadus was the first to break the stillness. He leaped from his seat in the candidates' section and sprinted across the testing floor, ignoring the scandalized shouts from the proctors. "Nate!" He skidded to a stop beside the dais, his young face fierce with loyalty. "It doesn't matter. You're still—"

"Remove the boy," Cardinal Vorthak commanded coldly. "The testing must continue."

As guards moved toward them, Broadus grabbed Nathaniel's scaled hand. "Listen to me," he whispered urgently. "This doesn't change anything between us. You're still my best friend. You're still—"

"The prophecy was false," Archdeacon Miraleth's voice cut through their moment like a blade. "The child is blessed with power but cursed with inability. He cannot be Rykke's sword if he cannot wield Rykke's flame."

Nathaniel felt something break inside his chest—not his heart, but something deeper. The weight of destiny that had pressed on him since childhood suddenly lifted, leaving him feeling strangely hollow and terrifyingly free.

As the guards escorted them from the chamber, Broadus squeezed his hand one more time. "We'll figure this out," his friend promised. "There has to be another way."

But even then, Nathaniel understood what the adults were too kind to say outright: there was no prophecy for the powerless. There was no destiny for those who couldn't touch the divine.

There was only the choice of what to do with the life that remained.

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 887

The training yards of the Lower Seminary buzzed with the controlled chaos of afternoon drills. Young acolytes practiced basic sword forms while their instructors called out corrections, but in the far corner, away from the main groups, Nathaniel worked alone.

"Again," muttered Brother Damynthak, the grizzled weapons master who'd been assigned to him. The old soldier had fought in three demon wars before taking his vows, and his scarred hands moved with practiced precision as he demonstrated the defensive sequence. "Magic or no magic, steel is steel. A sword doesn't care if you can cast."

Nathaniel wiped sweat from his scaled brow and raised his blade. Two more years of this—morning prayers, afternoon combat training, evening studies in demon anatomy and tactics. While other boys his age learned to channel divine light or bend reality with their will, he learned the weight of a blade, the balance of armor, the thousand small details that kept mundane soldiers alive in a magical world.

"Your footwork's already better than most third year acolytes," Damynthak grunted as Nathaniel completed the sequence without error. "But you're still thinking like someone who expects magic to save you."

"I don't expect magic to do anything," Nathaniel replied, perhaps more bitterly than intended.

"Exactly the problem." Damynthak lowered his own blade. "You're fighting despite having no magic, when you should be fighting because you have no magic. There's a difference, boy."

Across the yard, Broadus finished his own training—divine magic crackling around his copper scales as he learned to enhance his combat abilities. Their eyes met for a moment, and Broadus raised his hand in their old gesture of friendship. But even that simple movement hurt now. The gap between them grew wider every day.

That evening, as Nathaniel sat in the small chamber that had become his home, he found a letter slipped under his door. Broadus's handwriting, still recognizable despite the formal seminary training:

Nate - I know things are different now. I know you think I pity you or that I'm just being nice. But remember when we were eight and I broke my leg falling from that tree? You carried me two miles back to town. You didn't have magic then either, but you saved me anyway. Some things don't change. - B

Nathaniel stared at the letter for a long time, then carefully folded it and placed it in the small wooden box where he kept his few personal possessions.

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 892

"Lieutenant Nathaniel, your assignment." Major Callum “The Judge” as he had become known handed him the sealed orders with barely concealed distaste. The man had commanded regular crusader companies for fifteen years and clearly resented having to deal with what he saw as charity cases.

Nathaniel broke the wax seal and read quickly. His first independent command—a small patrol tasked with investigating reports of demon activity near the border settlements. Nothing glamorous, nothing that would require magical support. A test, probably, to see if the young officer who couldn't touch the divine would get his men killed.

"Sir," Nathaniel said carefully, "the reports mention reality distortions and suspected portal magic. Shouldn't we coordinate with—"

"The Seventh Rykke Battalion is engaged elsewhere," Callum cut him off. "You'll make do with conventional forces. Unless you feel the assignment is beyond your... capabilities?"

The challenge hung in the air between them. Nathaniel had learned to recognize that tone over the past few years—the careful politeness that masked complete lack of confidence in his abilities. "No sir. We'll handle it."

"See that you do. Dismissed."

As Nathaniel left the command tent, he found Broadus waiting outside. His old friend now wore the insignia of a full paladin, his copper scales bearing the ritual scars that marked him as blessed by Rykke himself. "Nate." Broadus's voice was careful, the way it always was now when they spoke in public. "I heard about your assignment."

"Word travels fast."

"Listen..." Broadus glanced around, then stepped closer. "I pulled some strings. There's a severed living near those settlements Trevor Leztern. Typical story accidentally cut off a compatriot in the heat of battle and got the poor man killed five years ago. He knows the area, knows how demon magic works even if he can’t use his knowledge for the church after being drummed out."

Nathaniel felt something stir in his chest—not quite hope, but interest. "Why are you telling me this?" "Because maybe it's time you stopped trying to be a normal soldier and started being... something else."

The settlement of Brighthaven sat in ruins when Nathaniel's patrol arrived. Houses stood intact but empty, their doors hanging open as if the inhabitants had simply vanished mid-task. A pot of stew still simmered over a cold fire, somehow preserved by lingering magic.

"Demon magic," confirmed Trevor Leztern, the severed scholar and devout follower of Aliara Broadus had told him about. The Lazuli man was perhaps forty, whose broad shoulders and lime green spattered white granite skin made him seem more ominous than most lazuli. He did have the distinctive pallor and hollow look of shame that marked all severed in the Ecclesiarchy, but his eyes were sharp with knowledge. "Portal displacement, most likely. The whole population's been shifted somewhere else."

"Somewhere else, where?" asked Sergeant Mills, one of Nathaniel's regulars.

"Could be anywhere. Another plane, another place. That's what makes portal magic so dangerous—and so hard to counter."

Nathaniel studied the empty settlement, his mind working. "But the demons had to anchor the spell somehow, right? There'd be physical components, ritual circles?" Trevor looked surprised. "You know magical theory?"

"I studied everything I couldn't do," Nathaniel replied. "If we can find the anchor points..."

"We could destabilize the entire spell matrix," Trevor finished, excitement creeping into his voice. "It wouldn't bring the people back, but it would prevent more abductions and probably trap whatever demons are responsible."

They found the ritual site an hour later—a complex array of carved stones arranged in precise geometric patterns around a natural spring. Demonic script pulsed with sickly light, and the air itself seemed to bend and twist around the central focus.

"I can read the binding glyphs," Trevor said, kneeling beside one of the stones. "But I can't touch them. The moment I get close, my severed nature will disrupt the spell—probably violently." "What would happen?"

"Best case? The portal collapses and takes a few demons with it. Worst case? It causes some sort of pushback reverberation in the area outside my severed field."

Nathaniel stared at the ritual circle, thinking. The smart play was to retreat, call for magical support, let proper battle mages handle it. The safe play. The play that would get more people killed while they waited.

"What if we disrupted it carefully?" Trevor asked. "Not all at once, but piece by piece?" Trevor continued. "That's... actually possible?" Nathaniel asked, curiosity growing in his eyes. "If we could get the timing right, use my severed disruption as a surgical tool rather than a sledgehammer..." Trevor said with a glint of hope in his eyes.

"Explain." Said Nathaniel.

As Trevor outlined the theory, Nathaniel felt something click into place in his mind. Not magic—he'd never have that. But understanding. Strategy. The realization that his inability to manipulate mana might not be a limitation, but might be a new window of opportunity, a precision instrument if you will.

They spent the rest of the day planning, calculating angles and timing. When the demons finally emerged for their evening feeding, they found their carefully constructed ritual under systematic attack by forces that couldn't be magically detected or countered.

The battle was brutal but brief. Without their portal magic, the demons were just monsters with claws and fangs. Nathaniel's conventional weapons and tactics proved more than adequate. As they made camp that night, Nathaniel approached Trevor. "Corporal Leztern... what you did today, the way you thought about the problem... I haven't seen or heard of anyone use severed disruption like that before."

"Maybe no one's tried." Trevor replied.

"Maybe." Nathaniel was quiet for a moment. "Are there others like you, you know of? Severed who served with honor before a mistake they made cost someone dearly and then were relieved of duties." Nathaniel asked.

"Most of them drink themselves to death or worse. But if someone showed them there was still a way to serve..." Trevor said while looking away in quiet understanding.

Nathaniel looked up at the stars, the same stars that had witnessed his failure seven years ago. But tonight, they seemed to shine with different light. "How many others?"

"Dozens. Maybe hundreds, if you count the ones who've gone into hiding."

"And they'd follow someone who understood their situation?"

Trevor smiled—the first genuine smile Nathaniel had seen from him. "Someone who knew what it meant to be powerless in a world that worships power? Lieutenant, they'd follow you into the Hellsmouth itself."

That night, Nathaniel wrote two letters. The first was his official report to Major Callum, detailing the successful completion of their mission using unconventional tactics. The second was to Broadus, thanking him for the introduction to Trevor and asking for more names—anyone who was severed, anyone who'd been cast aside, anyone who might be willing to serve again if given the chance.

The company that would become the CRP’s began that night, born not from prophecy or divine blessing, but from the simple understanding that broken blades could still cut.

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 893

Nathaniel ducked under the tavern's low beam, his officer's insignia catching the lamplight as he swept the dim interior. The Weeping Griffin wasn't the sort of establishment where crusader lieutenants typically spent their evenings, but he'd heard whispers about a particular patron who haunted the place.

In the far corner, hunched over a tankard of ale that had long since gone flat, sat a man whose very presence had carved out a circle of empty tables around him. He was a larger dydelon by non hemalyphian standards, his hair still more brown than grey, with rugged feature hidden under the thick beard that shaped his face. The other patrons gave him a wide berth, their conversations dropping to nervous whispers whenever they dared glance his way.

Nathaniel approached slowly, watching the enchanted lantern above the man's table hang empty of their magical light. The temperature was several degrees lower in this corner as well.

"You're Davin Brigmen?," Nathaniel asked, settling into the chair across from him without invitation. "Former adventurer of the Third Circle of Yind, banished after an incident that got a master mage killed."

The man looked up with hollow green eyes. His face was gaunt, marked by the distinctive pallor that all severed eventually developed as if the magical energy that gave life its vibrancy had been permanently drained from them.

"Former everything," Davin replied bitterly. "Former soldier, former cursed but useful dydelon being. And you're the lieutenant who can't cast so much as a spark, if the stories are true."

Nathaniel didn't flinch. "They are. I'm also the one offering you a chance to serve again."

Davin laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Serve? Look around, boy. I can't even sit in a tavern without killing every light in the place. What army would want someone who destroys magic just by existing?"

"Mine." Nathaniel replied.

The word hung in the air between them. Around the tavern, the normal sounds of evening—clinking glasses, muttered conversations, the bard's enchanted lute—all seemed muted in the dead zone that surrounded their table.

"But I'm cursed. Broken. A walking reminder of what happens when a severed steps wrong." Davin said with an air of authority he no longer possessed.

"And now you drink alone in a tavern where no one wants to sit near you." Nathaniel pointed out more harshly than intended.

Nathaniel leaned forward, his ebony scales catching what little light remained in their corner. "But you are exactly what we need. I can't wield magic, Davin. Never could. But I've learned something these past few years—sometimes the greatest strength comes from what others see as weakness."

The severed man studied him with fresh interest. "You really think a company of the magically damned could make a difference?"

"I think a company of soldiers who can't be stopped by enemy spells, who can walk through magical barriers like they don't exist, who can turn any demon mage into just another monster with claws..." Nathaniel smiled grimly. "I think that terrifies our enemies more than any prophecy ever could."

For the first time since Nathaniel had sat down, Davin straightened in his chair. Something that might have been hope flickered in his eyes.

"What would you call such a company?"

"Crusaders of Righteous Prosperity," Nathaniel replied. "The CRP’s, for short. Because we're all broken in our own way—but together, we're exactly what this war needs."

Davin raised his flat ale in a mock toast. "To the broken and the damned, then. May we find purpose in our ruin."

As their tankards clinked together, the last enchanted lantern in their section finally guttered out, leaving them in darkness for a moment. But for the first time in months, neither man minded the shadows.

Six months after The Weeping Griffin

The abandoned monastery of Saint Valdris sat like a broken tooth against the grey sky, its walls scarred by the demon attack that had claimed the brothers three years prior. No one had bothered to rebuild it—the site was considered cursed, tainted by the dark magic that had torn through its halls. Which made it perfect for Nathaniel's purposes.

"Not exactly welcoming," muttered Corporal Hendricks, one of the regular soldiers who'd volunteered to help with the "special project." The man had served with Nathaniel long enough to trust his judgment, but even he looked skeptical as they approached the ruins.

"It doesn't need to be welcoming," Nathaniel replied, dismounting from his horse. "It needs to be private."

Inside the monastery's main hall, thirty-seven men and women sat on makeshift benches—the largest gathering of severed individuals in Ecclesiarchy recorded history. They represented every type of mistreatment that the Curseborne could face. What they shared was the hollow look of

people who'd learned to live with the exclusion and emptiness that came with being a severed in the Ecclesiarchy.

Trevor Leztern stood beside Nathaniel, having agreed to serve as his sergeant. Over the past months, the former mercenary had proven invaluable at finding and recruiting other severed. His network of contacts stretched across Rykkur’s kingdom, built from shared misery and mutual understanding.

"Brothers and sisters," Nathaniel began, his voice carrying clearly in the stone chamber. "You know why we're here. The Church calls you damned. The military calls you broken. Society wishes us banished. But I've seen what we can do when we work together."

He gestured to Trevor, who stepped forward with a collection of documents.

"Six successful missions in four months," Trevor announced. "Anti-magical recovery of all persons trapped in Auger’s demon sleep curse. Disruption of a demon summoning circle near Moh’s Stronghold. Infiltration of a cult compound that was warded against magical detection. Every single operation succeeded because we could do what no conventional force could—we could walk through magical defenses like they didn't exist."

A woman near the back raised her hand. Nathaniel recognized her—as Elena Gloss "Lieutenant," she said, her voice carrying the careful control of someone who'd learned to mask pain. "What you're describing sounds like using us as expendable assets. How is this different from what we've already experienced?"

The question hung in the air. Nathaniel had expected it—trust didn't come easily to people who'd been abandoned by the institutions and people they'd served.

"Because," he said quietly, "I'm one of you, I was discarded when I could not manipulate mana."

Nathaniel’s ebony night scales that had once been called a blessing gleaming in the light. "I was born to fulfill a prophecy. Trained from childhood to be Rykke's chosen champion." Nathaniel paced across the front of the room slowly.

"When the testing came, I had more raw magical power than anyone had ever seen—and absolutely no ability to use it. " "The church called me blessed and cursed in the same breath, then quietly shuffled me away to where I couldn't embarrass them."

The room was silent now; everyone focused on his words watching Nathaniel Xolo with a reverence they all shared.

"I've spent seven years learning to fight without magic, to think without divine guidance, to lead without the backing of prophecy. And I've learned something our predecessors never understood—we don't need their power to serve. We need to serve in spite of their power."

A middle aged dydelon in the front row spoke up. Toin Marsh, "What you're proposing sounds like a military unit. That means chain of command, discipline, training. But more than that—it means the Church has to officially recognize us. What makes you think they'll do that?"

Nathaniel smiled grimly. "Because another demon war is looming, and they're running out of options."

He nodded to Trevor, who unfurled a map of the borderlands. Red marks indicated recent demon incursions—dozens of them, increasing in frequency and intensity over the past year.

"The current demonic incursion is straining our resources," Nathaniel continued. "Traditional magical forces are spread thin. Demon portal magic is becoming more sophisticated, reality-warping attacks are increasing, and our enemies are learning to counter divine magic. But they've never faced an enemy who can't be magically affected at all."

"So we're shock troops," said Elena flatly.

"We're specialists," Nathaniel corrected. "Anti-magical warfare is a discipline that's never been properly developed by the church because no one thought it was necessary. We're going to change that." Toin leaned forward. "You have a plan for training? For organization?"

"I have a framework, provided by the Hemalyphians" Nathaniel replied.

"But I need experienced soldiers to help develop it. People who understand both magical and conventional warfare, who can think tactically about how to use your... unique capabilities."

A younger dydelon man near the middle raised his hand. "Daveed Kyalk, former temple guard." His face was scarred on one side, probably from the same incident that landed him here. "I'm interested, but I need to know—what happens to us after the war? Assuming we survive, what's our future?"

It was a fair question, and Nathaniel appreciated the man's directness. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I know what our future looks like if we don't do this—drinking ourselves to death in taverns where no one wants to sit near us, begging for scraps from the institutions that cast us out, dying forgotten and alone."

He looked around the room, meeting as many eyes as he could. "I can't promise you glory. I can't promise you'll be welcomed with open arms. But I can promise you purpose. I can promise you'll serve alongside people who understand what you've lost, and I can promise you'll face enemies who will learn to fear what we've become."

The silence stretched for several long moments. Then Elena Gloss stood up. “I’m in," she said simply. Toin Marsh nodded slowly. "As am I. Someone needs to teach you youngsters how to fight properly."

One by one, others began to stand. Not all of them—several left quietly, unwilling or unable to take the risk. But by the end of the evening, twenty-three men and women had committed to what would become the most unusual military unit in the kingdom's history.

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 894

Six months after The Formation of the C.R.P.’s

"This is a disaster," muttered Sergeant Mills, watching from the hilltop as Nathaniel's newly formed company stumbled through their first group exercise. Below them, the severed soldiers were attempting a basic flanking maneuver against a simulated enemy position,

"Elena, hold position!" Nathaniel called out, but it was too late. The former priest’s guard severed radius had drifted apart from Daveed’s, creating spaces for magic to pass through unhindered.

"Stand down!" Nathaniel shouted. "Everyone back to starting positions!"

The exercise ground fell silent except for the muttered curses of soldiers examining their equipment. They had been retraining their sword arms and capacity for armor, and This was their third attempt at coordinated movement in two weeks. Each attempt had ended in some variation of the same problem—severed individuals suffered from varying range increments in their manaless zoning this lead to dangerous opportunity for opposing forces.

Trevor approached, his face grim. "Lieutenant, we need to talk."

They walked to the edge of the training ground, out of earshot of the others. "The men are starting to doubt," Trevor said quietly. "Elena asked me privately if we're just fooling ourselves, trying to make something work that's fundamentally broken."

Nathaniel looked back at his company. They sat in small groups, some tending to damaged gear, others just staring at the ground with the defeated look he'd learned to recognize in severed individuals. The weight of failure was familiar to all of them.

"What if we're approaching this wrong?" Nathaniel said suddenly.

With an inquisitive look Trevor asked, "How do you mean?"

"We're trying to make them fight like a normal unit that happens to have anti-magic abilities. But what if that's backwards? What if we need to build tactics around the anti-magic first, then add the conventional warfare?" Nathaniel said as a matter of fact.

Trevor frowned. "I'm not following."

"Think about it. Enemy mages rely on predictable magical effects. Their spells have specific ranges, their enchanted weapons have consistent properties, their defensive wards follow established patterns. But if we can create zones of chaotic magical interference..."

Trevor's eyes lit up. "We could make their own magic work against them. A fireball spell that suddenly evaporates, enchanted armor that turns into a crushing weight, portal magic that opens to closes cutting off reinforcement."

"Exactly. We stop trying to fight despite our nature and start fighting because of it." Nathaniel said with certainty.

They spent the rest of the day working with individual soldiers, mapping out their personal severed radius.

By the end of the week, they'd developed their first successful formation: overlapping fields of severed radius that created a mobile zone of zero mana. Any enemy spellcaster caught within it would find their magic completely neutralized.

The breakthrough came during their first field test against a captured demon—a minor imp that had been volunteered by the local garrison for "training purposes." The creature had been bound by conventional restraints, since magical bindings wouldn't hold around the severed soldiers.

"Remember," Nathaniel called out as his company took positions, "we're not trying to kill it quickly. We want to test our theories about controlled severed radius walls."

The imp, released from its cage, immediately began casting. Fire erupted from its claws, aimed at the nearest soldier—Elena, who stood at the edge of the formation. But as the magical flame passed through the overlapping severed fields, the fire flickered at the edges and was completely snuffed out when Daveed leapt closer. The imp shrieked in confusion and tried a different spell—a charm effect meant to turn the soldiers against each other. Instead, the magic simply dissipated into wafts of smoke, leaving the creature growling helplessly as it considered its escape.

"Fascinating," breathed Toin, making notes in his field journal. "The magical energy is being destroyed. The magic wall we create as a unit is so large we can march right up to our enemy."

The imp's third attempt at casting opened a small portal—probably meant to bring reinforcements. Instead, the disrupted spell made the imp throw itself on the ground in disapproval of our methods.

"I think," said Elena, watching the imp throw a tantrum, "we might actually have something here."

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 895

Cardinal Vorthak was of a smaller stature for the winged Ora’Kresh, but what he lacked in size he made up for with brilliant purple scales and one of the sharpest minds in the Ecclesiarchy. Vorthak’s office was a monument to ecclesiastical power—walls lined with holy texts, artifacts of divine blessing, and portraits of past church leaders. Nathaniel stood at attention before the massive desk, his formal dress uniform pressed to perfection, while the Cardinal reviewed the papers Trevor had prepared.

"Crusaders of Righteous Prosperity," Vorthak read aloud, his voice flat with disapproval. "An amusing acronym, Lieutenant, but I fail to see how this... collection of damned individuals serves the Church's interests."

"With respect, Your Eminence, our field tests have shown remarkable success rates against demonic forces. Our anti-magical capabilities provide tactical advantages that conventional forces lack."

"Your anti-magical capabilities," Vorthak repeated, setting down the papers, "are the result of divine punishment, not divine blessing. You're asking me to officially sanction a military unit composed entirely of individuals who have been severed from Rykke's grace."

The Cardinal stood and walked to the window overlooking the cathedral courtyard. "Do you know what the common soldiers call you behind your back, Lieutenant? The Cursed Company. The Damned Battalion. They see your presence as a sign of bad luck, a reminder that even the blessed can fall from grace."

"The common soldiers also see results, Your Eminence. The last gathering of Cultists was eliminated with zero casualties. The demon portal at Moh’s was closed without requiring a full battle mage deployment. The—"

"Yes, yes, I've read the reports." Vorthak waved dismissively. "But success in minor skirmishes does not constitute grounds for official recognition. What you're asking for would require resources, equipment, formal military status. The Church would be officially endorsing the idea that severed individuals can serve as effectively as the blessed."

"They can serve more effectively in certain circumstances."

"That," Vorthak said sharply, turning from the window, "is precisely the problem. If word spreads that the severed can achieve what blessed soldiers cannot, what does that say about the nature of divine favor? What does it say about the prophecies, the sacred traditions, the very foundation of our faith?"

Nathaniel felt a familiar frustration building in his chest. "Your Eminence, with the greatest respect, perhaps it says that Rykke works through all of us, not just the obviously blessed. Perhaps it says that divine will can be accomplished through any means, even those that seem cursed."

The Cardinal's eyes narrowed. "Careful, Lieutenant. You border on heresy."

"I border on effectiveness." He replied curtly.

The silence that followed was dangerous. Nathaniel realized he'd pushed too far, let his frustration override his diplomacy. But before he could apologize, footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. The office door opened without ceremony, and Brother Broadus entered, wearing the full regalia of a senior paladin inquisitor.

"Your Eminence," Broadus said, offering a perfect bow. "I apologize for the interruption, but I have urgent intelligence regarding the current demonic incursions." Vorthak's expression shifted from anger to concern. "Speak."

"Our scryers have detected a massive portal manifestation forming just six miles from the Wall. Intelligence suggests it's meant for a full-scale invasion—possibly involving Void Reapers and other entities that can neutralize conventional magical defenses."

The Cardinal paled. Nathaniel had never seen the man show fear before, but the mention of Void Reapers had clearly shaken him. "How long do we have?" Vorthak asked.

"Days, perhaps a week at most. The portal requires significant time to stabilize, but once it opens..." Broadus let the implication hang in the air. "What do our battle mages recommend?"

"They recommend evacuation of the entire border region beyond the wall. A fighting retreat to the Wall of Rykkur." Broadus paused. "Your Eminence, they believe that conventional magical forces will be ineffective against Void Reapers. The creatures' anti-magic aura is too powerful."

Nathaniel felt his heart rate increase. This was the moment—the crisis that would either validate everything he'd built or destroy it entirely. "However," Broadus continued, "there is one tactical option our strategists have identified. A force that can operate effectively in anti-magic environments might be able to disrupt the portal before it fully manifests."

Vorthak looked between Broadus and Nathaniel, understanding dawning in his eyes. "You orchestrated this," he said quietly. "I presented intelligence and tactical assessments based on current circumstances," Broadus replied carefully. "The timing is coincidental."

"Coincidental." Vorthak's voice was dry. "And I suppose you have a recommendation?" "Grant Lieutenant Nathaniel's request for official recognition. Deploy the CRP’s against the portal site. If they succeed, you'll have proven that the severed can serve the Church as effectively as the blessed. If they fail..." Broadus shrugged. "The problem solves itself."

The Cardinal returned to his desk, staring at the authorization papers for a long moment. Finally, he picked up his quill.

"Very well," he said, signing with sharp, angry strokes. "The Crusaders of Righteous Prosperity are hereby granted provisional military status. You'll have access to standard equipment and support—but no special considerations. You succeed or fail on your own merits."

He looked up at Nathaniel with cold eyes. "I hope, for your sake and the sake of your soldiers, that your confidence is justified. Because if you fail, the blame will fall entirely on your shoulders." As they left the Cardinal's office, Broadus walked silently beside Nathaniel until they were well clear of the cathedral.

"Thank you," Nathaniel said quietly.

"Don't thank me yet," Broadus replied. "I wasn't lying about the portal. The threat is real, and if you can't stop it, a lot of people are going to die."

"I know." Nathaniel replied with determination.

"And Nate?" Broadus stopped walking, turning to face his old friend. "If you pull this off, everything changes. Not just for you and your company, but for every severed individual in the kingdom. You'll be proving that being cut off from divine grace doesn't mean being cut off from divine purpose."

Nathaniel nodded, understanding the weight of what lay ahead. "And if we fail?"

"Then we'll have confirmed what everyone already believes—that the severed are broken beyond repair." Broadus's expression was grim. "No pressure."

That night, Nathaniel gathered his company in the monastery's main hall. Thirty-three faces looked back at him—some eager, some terrified, all marked by the hollow look of people who'd learned to live with loss.

"We have official recognition," he announced. "We also have our first major deployment. A chance to prove that everything we've built, everything we've worked for, actually matters."

He told them about the portal, about the Void Reapers, about the evacuation orders already being prepared for the border regions.

"This is what we trained for," he concluded. "Not just to fight demons, but to fight the kind of demons that make conventional forces retreat. To go where blessed soldiers fear to tread and do what magic cannot accomplish."

Elena raised her head. "And if we succeed?"

"Then we'll have earned our place in this war. We'll be the weapon that the Church needs but never wanted to admit it had."

Toin cleared his throat. "And if we fail?"

Nathaniel looked around the room at the faces of people who'd already lost everything once. "Then we'll fail fighting for something that mattered, alongside people who understood us. That's more than most severed ever get."

The silence that followed was different from the defeated quiet he'd grown used to. This was the silence of people making peace with a dangerous choice.

"All right then," said Elena, standing up. "Let's go save the world."

One by one, the others stood as well. Not because they believed in prophecy or divine blessing, but because they believed in each other. And sometimes, Nathaniel thought, that was enough.

The clash of steel rang across the scorched earth as Nathaniel's CRP’s engaged a pack of flame-wreathed demons. Behind him, Brother Tirimon, a paladin from the neighboring company, raised his blessed sword high, channeling holy light to purge the hell spawn. The golden radiance blazed forth—then suddenly winked out as Corporal Desmond, one of Nathaniel's severed, stumbled backward from a demon's claw swipe.

"Desmond, left flank!" Nathaniel barked, spotting the opening. The grizzled severed soldier spun and charged straight at a demon mage whose hands sparked with infernal energy. As Desmond closed in, the creature's spell sputtered and died—its magical flames snuffed out like candles in a storm. Nathaniel's blade sliced across the now-defenseless demon's throat.

But their advantage came at a cost. Sister Helena, trying to heal a wounded crusader twenty feet away, cried out in frustration as her divine magic kept failing. "Captain! Your severed are disrupting my—"

A hellhound pounced at the injured soldier. Helena frantically tried to cast a protective ward, but private Kaine's severed radius killed the spell before it could form. Nathaniel hurled himself between them, his mundane steel meeting supernatural fangs. No magic—just skill, determination, and the hard truth that his company's greatest strength was also their deadliest weakness.

"Form up!" he shouted to his severed. "We fight as one—and everyone else fights around us!"

The battle escalated as more demons poured through a tear in reality itself. Nathaniel watched with grim satisfaction as private Yenna charged straight through a demon lord's portal magic—the dimensional rift collapsed the instant she entered its radius, trapping three lesser demons on this side while severing their reinforcements. But the victory lasted only moments.

"Captain!" Sergeant Mills called out. "The battle mages are pulling back—they can't maintain fire support with us this close!"

Nathaniel grasped the problem immediately. The company of Paladin Inquisitors on the ridge had been raining down arcane artillery, but now his severed were advancing up the slope. One by one, their spells failed, creating gaps in the magical barrage that demons were already exploiting.

"Broadus!" Nathaniel spotted his old friend coordinating with a group of paladins. "We need a corridor—twenty seconds!"

Broadus's eyes found his across the battlefield, understanding flashing between them. "Inquisitors, advance in formation! Give the CRP’s a path!"

The paladins surged forward in perfect sync, their blessed weapons carving through demon ranks. Nathaniel seized the moment, leading his severed in a crushing charge that split the enemy force in two. Behind them, the Inquisitors resumed their bombardment, their magic flowing freely now that the anti-magic fields had swept past.

But as Nathaniel turned to check their rear, he saw the brutal cost of their tactics. Three crusaders lay bleeding where Helena couldn't reach them—the constant dance of positioning around his severed meant some wounded always remained beyond magical aid.

The ebony scales along his arms gleamed in the hellfire light as he faced the hardest decision any captain could make, press the advantage or pull back to save the wounded. In war, even the blessed confronted impossible choices.

A bone-chilling howl echoed across the battlefield as something massive emerged from the dimensional tear—a Void Reaper, its form wreathed in anticipation of its own anti-magic that made even Nathaniel's severed look like novices. Unlike the severed who had no control over their severed radius, Void reapers could turn it on and off at will. The creature's presence began draining mana from a hundred-foot radius, causing every spell-enhanced weapon to lose its glow, every magical armor to become mundane steel.

"Well," Corporal Desmond muttered, hefting his plain iron sword with a dark grin, "looks like it's our kind of fight now."

For the first time in the battle, Nathaniel's company held the advantage. While paladins stumbled as their divine strength abandoned them, while Inquisitors found themselves defenseless without their spells, the CRP’s fought exactly as they always had—with skill, fury, and nothing but cold steel.

The Void Reaper's claws met Nathaniel's blade in a shower of sparks. Behind him, his severed pressed their attack with newfound confidence. They weren't the outcasts anymore; they were the only ones who could fight this thing.

"CRP’s!" Nathaniel roared as he ducked a massive claw swipe. "Show them how the Curseborne wage war!"

His company took up the battle cry as they swarmed the massive demon. No magic. No divine blessing. thirty twenty-three warriors who had learned to fight in a world that had abandoned them, finally facing an enemy that couldn't be defeated any other way.

Broadus's voice carried over the chaos as he organized the retreat of the magical forces: "Fall back to minimum safe distance! This one belongs to the CRP’s!"

As the last magical warriors pulled back to safety, Nathaniel found himself standing in the eye of a storm made of steel and fury. His severed fought with desperate joy he'd never witnessed before—the joy of finally becoming exactly what the world needed them to be. The Void Reaper's anti-magic aura meant nothing to soldiers who had never felt magic's touch. Its reality-warping claws met mundane steel wielded by hands that had learned to find strength in emptiness.

The battle raged for what felt like hours but lasted probably only minutes. When the Void Reaper finally fell, its massive form dissolving into shadow and silence, Nathaniel's company stood victorious in a circle where magic had died. Around them, the normal sounds of battle slowly returned as mana began flowing again.

But for those precious moments, in that dead zone where magic went to die, the CRPs had been exactly what they were meant to be: not broken remnants of failed prophecy, but the perfect weapon for an imperfect war.