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From DOOM DOOM DOOM to VICTORY VICTORY VICTORY, had a blast. Much love.

One more march, one more battle.

We'll have to concept on purpose someday NND. Great PC, as always!

Didn't have a ton of moments with Nela, but she left an impact on Rhuk Nor. Great PC!

Salud, always excited to see what you'll cook up next. Great PC!

You did a really good job. You'll continue to do good things my man!

[Toss the ash. Hurl the evil.]

This one doesn't know how to begin. Not properly.

This may be the end. Bet Nappahi looms, a ruin drowning in rot, full of the last monsters clinging to Iakmes' shadow. He's marched to dozens like it. He's bled in each one. But this time, it feels different. The kind of different that settles in the joints. In the breath. In the quiet between orders.

He's tired. Not of war—he made peace with war long ago. He's tired of being the one left. The one who always walks back. The one who gets told to lead another charge, sharpen the next blade, speak the next name of the dead.

He's tired of being held together by discipline and duty and little else.

He used to think the work would lead somewhere. That if he did enough—if he killed enough, endured enough, bled enough—it would matter. But it doesn't. No statues, no stories, no soft thanks from the people he served. Just another scarred Stonefolk holding a scythe too heavy for his hands.

And still, he keeps going.

Because it is not for glory. It never was. It is for the Fourth. For the Well. For the ones who came after.

Ekret has stood beside him through four battles. More, if one counts the ones they don't speak of. If luck has sense, Ekret will outlive this one.

Colmes is unchanged. Cold, but not cruel. The kind of leader who says little but always knows what to ask. Rhuk Nor respects him. That has always been enough.

And then there's Al-Basri.

His closest friend. The one he trusts more than his own thoughts. They have fought back to back, breath syncing in the chaos, blades singing in tune. He doesn't always understand what she's thinking. But she doesn't need to speak for him to feel her there, solid as stone. He is proud to have marched beside her. Proud to have bled beside her. Proud, even now, to be called her comrade.

Lesthrae... that one has something bright in them. A sharp mind and a sharper sense of when to speak and when to listen. If she survives, she'll make a finer Sergeant than he ever was. And he hopes she does.

He doesn't know if he'll live through Bet Nappahi. A part of him doesn't care anymore. But another part—buried deeper—hopes that if this is the end, he can meet it standing. Blade in hand. No fear in his step. Just resolve.

He doesn't want to be remembered as a hero. Just as someone who never stopped doing the work.

Because when the time came—he held the line.

Toss the ash. Hurl the evil.

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

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

An extra letter, hidden away deep in the books by the writing station, hidden. A stamp, and label.

If Rhuk Nor dies, give what he has to the Fourth.

Hide

To the Survivors of the Fourth,

If this letter reaches you, then this one did not return from Bet Nappahi.

So be it.

The Fourth has always done the work no one else would. While others chase records or parade their virtue, we've held the walls. The Rose will talk of corruption, but they've never had to hold the line through fire. They don't know the restraint we carry. The weight.

But you do.

To those of you who survive this war—carry what we've built. Not perfection. Not honor, even. Just strength. Purpose. A kind of truth that can't be written down.

Lieutenant Colmes—
This one hopes he answered the punishment you once spoke of, for Emilia Laurentis. The order was real, but the reason was not. It was weakness. Vengeance. He has carried that shame since. He tried to repay it with blood and work. He hopes that was enough. Toss the ash. Hurl the evil.

Sergeant Izdihar al-Basri—
You were always the better of us. The clearer voice, the surer blade. You never let the dust cloud your judgment. This one learned from you, even when you weren't teaching. If anything good came of his service, it was shaped by your example. You are the heart of the Fourth. He hopes you know that.

Soldier Lesthrae—
Frogbones, the name will do. Your wit, your calm—rare things. Rare enough that you may one day wear this cloak better than he ever did. He would offer it now, but you'd trip over its shame. Earn your own. It'll fit better.

Sergeant Arnock Reyer—
You saved him once, when he thought no one would. When Vaaz had broken him, when he thought the Fourth had turned its back—you came. He tried to make that rescue worth something. He hopes he did.

Hanson, Ward, Ristar—
You three will balance each other, if you let yourselves.
Hanson, remind them to laugh.
Ward, show them what it means to stand straight.
Ristar, teach them when silence matters most.

To the rest—
Be better. March further. Endure longer. The cloak is yours now. Carry it well.

Let others chase praise. You? Just hold.

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

[close]

Now this was a clever aprils fools. 10/10, hilarious. Almost got me!

[Sergeant Rhuk Nor]

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.

Big groups coming in to close out my season. Don't know how available I'll be in the next 3-4 weeks

[To the Honorable Bey, to Lieutenant Colmes,]

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.

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.

[Sergeant Rhuk Nor]

Aurelio,

The Fourth fights where it must, as it always has. Rhuk Nor's strength is not yours to call upon—it belongs to the Well, to the work, to those who march beside him. If battle is coming, then the Fourth will stand, as it always does.

Under the Sultan's gaze and the Bey's wisdom.
Sergeant Rhuk Nor

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.

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.

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.