The Curseborne Rise, pt. 2

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

The dark scaled Ora’Kresh High Regulator Paladin Warren Gaine had come to the battlefield with one purpose: to document the heresy he was certain he would witness. The Church Regulators existed to root out corruption and false doctrine, and everything about Nathaniel's 213th Crusaders of Righteous Prosperity reeked of both.

"Cursed leading severed," he muttered to his second-in-command, Paladin Marcus Caask, a golden scaled Ora’Kresh paladin years beyond his measure who had a soft spot for the severed due to his uncle’s condition. As they took position on the ridge overlooking the engagement Warren reflected on the young Ora’Kresh who’d be his predecessor. Returning from his reflection he continued. "Mark my words—we'll watch them break and run the moment real demons appear. Then we'll have grounds to disband this abomination before it spreads."

Warren had seen the reports, of course. Minor skirmishes, small victories against lesser demons. Parlor tricks, he'd assumed, carefully managed encounters designed to build a reputation. The Cardinal had been wise to send the Regulators as observers; someone needed to document the inevitable failure when these broken soldiers faced true evil.

But as the battle unfolded below, Warren found his certainty wavering.

The first shock came when he watched a severed corporal charge directly through a demon mage's fire spell—not dodge it, not resist it, but simply negate it by proximity. The hellfire died like a snuffed candle, leaving the demon defenseless against mundane steel.

"Did you see that?" Marcus whispered. "The spell just... stopped."

Warren nodded grimly. He'd seen anti-magic before, but never wielded so deliberately, so tactically. These weren't broken soldiers stumbling through combat; they were warriors who had learned to weaponize their curse.

The second shock came when he realized the conventional forces were falling back, not in retreat, but in tactical coordination. The blessed paladins and battle mages weren't fleeing from the severed—they were working with them, creating space for their anti-magic fields to operate effectively.

"That's... actually brilliant," Marcus admitted reluctantly. "They're turning their disability into an advantage."

But Warren's worldview truly shattered when the Void Reaper emerged.

He'd faced one before, three years ago on the western frontier near the Lapis Mountains. His entire company of blessed paladins had been forced to retreat when their divine strength failed,

their holy weapons became ordinary metal, their protective prayers fell silent. They'd lost good men that day, forced to throw their own lives into the perilous situation of stripping their magically enhanced armor and fighting in underclothes.

Now he watched twenty-three severed soldiers charge directly into that same anti-magic aura without hesitation. Not because they were foolhardy, but because they were finally, truly in their element.

"Holy Rykke," Warren breathed, watching Nathaniel himself engage the massive demon in single combat. No divine strength, no blessed weapon, no protective magic—just skill, courage, and a warrior's determination to stand between evil and innocence.

The severed fought with a joy Warren had never seen in blessed soldiers. They moved like dancers through the Void Reaper's mana reaving strikes, their mundane weapons finding gaps that magic-enhanced senses might have missed. They fought as if they'd been born for this exact moment.

When the demon finally fell, Warren found himself on his feet, cheering alongside his fellow Regulators.

"Sir?" Marcus looked at him with confusion. "Orders?"

Warren stared down at the battlefield where Nathaniel's company stood victorious in a circle where magic had died. Around them, conventional forces were returning, magical support resuming, the normal order of battle reasserting itself. But for those crucial minutes, the severed had been exactly what the Church needed warriors who could fight where the blessed could not.

"Orders?" Warren asked. Then he began walking down the ridge toward the battlefield. "I'm going to talk to their captain."

Nathaniel was checking on his wounded when Warren approached, still wearing the formal regalia of a Church Regulator. The young lieutenant's expression grew wary—Regulators meant investigation, and investigation usually meant trouble.

"Captain," Warren said formally, then paused. "Lieutenant. My apologies. I understand your official recognition is still... provisional."

"High Paladin," Nathaniel replied carefully. "I assume you're here to evaluate our performance?"

"I came here to document heresy," Warren said bluntly. "I was certain that watching your company in action would provide ample evidence for disbandment proceedings."

Nathaniel's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

"Instead," Warren continued, "I watched thirty-three warriors do something I've never seen in twenty years of service. You didn't just fight that Void Reaper—you fought it in the one way it could actually be defeated. By someone who couldn't be stripped of power they never had."

The tension in Nathaniel's shoulders eased slightly. "And your assessment?"

Warren looked around at the CRPs, noting how they tended to their gear with the quiet professionalism of veteran soldiers. No divine blessing illuminated their faces, but they carried themselves with the confidence of warriors who had found their purpose.

"My assessment," Warren said slowly, "is that I've been an idiot. I've spent three decades believing that divine favor was the only measure of a soldier's worth, and today I watched you prove that divine purpose can be served in ways I never imagined."

He extended his hand. "Warren Gaine, High Paladin of the Church Regulators. And I'd be honored to serve alongside you, Captain."

Nathaniel stared at the offered hand for a moment, then clasped it firmly. "Nathaniel Xolo, provisional captain of warriors who've learned to find strength in emptiness."

"Two sides of the same coin," Warren mused. "I fight because I was blessed with divine favor. You fight because you were stripped of it. But we both fight for the same cause."

"The same cause," Nathaniel agreed. "Just different paths to reach it."

As they talked, Warren realized something profound: he'd spent his entire career surrounded by soldiers who fought because they were chosen. Today he'd met soldiers who fought because they chose to, despite being unchosen. And somehow, that made their victory more remarkable, not less.

"Tell me," Warren said as they watched the battlefield being cleared, "what's next for the CRPs?"

Nathaniel's expression grew serious. "We prove that today wasn't a fluke. We show the Church that the severed can serve as effectively as the blessed, in their own way."

"And if you succeed?"

"Then maybe we change what it means to be faithful in a world where divine favor isn't guaranteed."

Warren nodded thoughtfully. "And if you fail?"

"Then at least we'll fail standing up, fighting for something that mattered."

For the first time in years, Warren found himself envying another soldier's mission. His own calling—to root out corruption and maintain orthodoxy—suddenly seemed narrow compared to Nathaniel's goal of proving that broken things could still serve divine purpose.

"Captain," he said finally, "when you're ready for your next deployment, request Regulator support. I'll make sure you get it."

"You'd do that? Even though we're severed?"

Warren smiled grimly. "Especially because you're severed. The Church needs warriors who can fight where magic fails. Today you proved that it exists. Tomorrow, I want to help you prove it wasn't an accident."

As Warren walked back to his own company, he found himself reconsidering everything he thought he knew about faith, service, and the nature of divine calling. He'd come to document heresy and instead discovered a new kind of orthodoxy—one where purpose mattered more than power, where service transcended blessing.

He'd found warriors who fought not because they were chosen, but because they refused to be unchosen. And that, Warren realized, might be the most faithful thing of all.

(A)fter.(C)alamities. Year 896

The sulfurous air burned Warren's lungs as he crouched beside Nathaniel behind the crumbling stone wall. One year of joint operations had taught them to read each other's movements, to anticipate tactics without lengthy explanations. The Hellsmouth lay one hundred miles ahead—a gaping wound in reality that vomited forth demons with clockwork regularity.

"Your severed ready for another dance with the hell-touched?" Warren asked, checking his blessed sword's divine glow. The weapon hummed with holy energy, eager for demon blood.

"Always," Nathaniel replied, adjusting his mundane steel blade. "Question is whether your paladins can keep up this time. Last week outside of Saphire Hold, Marcus nearly got himself killed trying to heal someone in Davin's anti-magic field."

Warren chuckled. "I've been drilling them on positioning. No more heroic charges into dead zones." He paused, studying the hellish portal ahead. "Though I have to admit, watching your people fight where magic dies... it still gives me chills. Good ones."

"A year ago you called us an abomination."

"A year ago I was an idiot." Warren's expression grew serious. "You know what changed my mind? It wasn't just the Void Reaper. It was watching Elena tend wounds with mundane supplies while my blessed healers stood around useless. She saved more lives that day than all our divine magic combined."

A bone-chilling howl echoed from the Hellsmouth as something massive stirred within. Both captains tensed, their easy banter shifting to combat focus.

"Sounds big," Nathaniel observed.

"Sounds expensive," Warren agreed. "My paladins will establish a perimeter, keep the smaller demons off your backs while you handle whatever nightmare crawls out of that hole."

"Standard formation?"

"Modified. I want Marcus and his squad positioned here—" Warren sketched quickly in the dirt, "—close enough to support, far enough to maintain spell coverage. Your CRPs advance in staggered formation, maximum anti-magic overlap."

Nathaniel nodded approvingly. "You've been studying our tactics."

"I've been learning from them. There's a difference between blessed warriors and effective warriors, Nate. It took me twenty one years to figure that out."

The use of his first name wasn't lost on Nathaniel. A year ago, Warren had addressed him with stiff formality. Now they planned battles like old friends, which, he supposed, they were becoming.

"Warren," Nathaniel said carefully, "after this campaign... what happens to joint operations? Cardinal Vorthak barely tolerates our existence as it is."

Warren was quiet for a moment, watching demons circle a Hellsmouth's rift like vultures. "Vorthak's not stupid, whatever his other faults. Results speak louder than theology, and we've obliterated six contingents of demons in three months. But..." He paused. "There are other Cardinals. Other Regulators who think I've gone soft."

Nathaniel smiled. "Have you?"

"Have I what?" Warren asked rhetorically.

"Gone soft. On the severed, on doctrine, on the way things are supposed to be."

Warren considered this seriously. "I've gone practical. I used to believe that divine favor was the only measure of worth. Now I believe divine purpose can be served by anyone willing to stand between darkness and light, blessed or cursed." He met Nathaniel's eyes. "If that's heresy, then I'm a heretic."

A series of explosions erupted from the Hellsmouth rift as reality tore wider. Demons began pouring out—lesser imps at first, then larger horrors with too many claws and eyes.

"Time for philosophy later," Nathaniel said, standing and signaling his company. "CRPs, advance formation! Show these demons what the Curseborne can do!"

Warren watched thirty-three severed warriors charge toward supernatural evil with mundane weapons and supernatural determination. Then he turned to his own men.

"First Regulator Company! Support our brothers! For Rykke and righteous purpose!"

The battle joined with the clash of steel on claw, the hiss of blessed weapons meeting demonic hide. Warren fought alongside his mounted paladins, divine strength flowing through him as he carved through lesser demons. But his eyes kept drifting to Nathaniel's company, marveling at their deadly efficiency.

Elena moved like a dancer through a pack of spine-devils, her anti-magic field causing their barbed projectiles to fall harmlessly to earth. Davin tackled a demon mage, nullifying its spells before driving cold steel through its heart. They fought with joy—the terrible joy of people finally becoming what they were meant to be.

"Warren!" Nathaniel's voice cut through the battle din. "Something big is coming through!"

The Hellsmouth rift convulsed, reality bending as something massive forced its way through. Warren felt his divine senses screaming warnings—this was old evil, powerful beyond measure.

"Pit Lord!" he shouted. "Full retreat to secondary positions!"

But as the creature emerged, Warren realized with sick certainty that conventional tactics wouldn't work. The Pit Lord's anti-magic aura was stronger than any Void Reaper's, and its reality-warping presence was already causing his paladins' blessed weapons to flicker and dim.

"Nate!" he called out. "Your people—"

"Already moving!" Nathaniel was sprinting toward the demon, his severed forming up around him. "Keep the smaller ones off us!"

Warren watched in amazement as the CRPs charged directly into the Pit Lord's reality-distorting aura. His paladins would have been stripped of power, reduced to fumbling with mundane weapons they'd just started to properly train with. But Nathaniel's severed fought exactly as they always had—with skill earned through necessity and strength found in emptiness.

"This is what they were made for," Warren breathed, his love of the severed growing just a little more.

The battle raged for what felt like hours. Warren's paladins held the perimeter, their blessed weapons effective against lesser demons while the CRPs engaged the Pit Lord in its own anti-magic domain. When Nathaniel's blade finally found the creature's heart, ending its reign of terror, Warren felt something shift in his understanding of divine purpose.

As the demon army fled back through the rift with their leader's death, Warren approached Nathaniel, who was cleaning demon ichor from his sword.

"That was..." Warren started, then shook his head. "I don't have words for what I just witnessed."

"Thirty-three people doing what they do best," Nathaniel replied simply. "Fighting where others can't."

"No." Warren's voice was firm. "Thirty-three warriors serving divine purpose in the most faithful way possible—by refusing to let their circumstances define their service."

They stood together in the sudden quiet of the battlefield, watching the Hellsmouth rift seal itself as its anchor point died.

"Warren," Nathaniel said finally, "about those other Cardinals, the ones who think you've gone soft..."

"What about them?"

"When they come for you—because they will—you won't be facing them alone."

Warren turned to look at his unlikely friend. "You'd stand with a Regulator against Church authority?"

"I'd stand with a friend against anyone who thinks faith is measured by blessing rather than service." Nathaniel's expression was serious. "You took a chance on us when no one else would. That means something."

Warren felt warmth spread through his chest—not the divine fire of blessed power, but something more mundane and perhaps more valuable. "Two sides of the same coin," he said, echoing their first conversation.

"Two sides of the same coin," Nathaniel agreed.

As they gathered their companies and prepared to return to base, Warren realized that his partnership with Nathaniel had become something more than tactical convenience. They'd become brothers in arms, united not by doctrine or divine favor, but by shared purpose and mutual respect.

"Nate," he said as they rode side by side, "next time someone asks me about serving alongside the severed, I'm going to tell them something."

"What's that?"

Warren smiled. "That I've never served alongside better soldiers, and I've never been more certain of divine purpose, than when fighting beside warriors who found their faith despite losing everything else."

Behind them, the sealed Hellsmouth rift closed in defeat, closed by the combined efforts of the blessed and the broken, proving once again that strength came in many forms.

Their friendship, Warren reflected, was like their military partnership—unexpected, unconventional, and absolutely unbreakable. Just as it should be.