“God will be my strength.” Tristan looked to his left. No one. He looked to his right. No one. His men had fallen back. They called his name in desperation, hoping their captain would join their flight. He would not, for he knew the cost of retreating. He knew what was expected of him in that moment. With most allied forces routed, only one battalion remained to resist the Gath onslaught until reinforcements arrived: Tristan’s battalion. Many would falter in the face of such terror, but not this man. Not on this day. He remembered his own father, the ill-fated Kendrick Rhys, charging into the orcish hordes on the fields of Pellmore. Yes, he swore to his dying father that he also would taste death before surrender. So he gripped tightly his father’s sword, that hallowed blade once wielded by kings of old, still a glutton for the blood of Arengard’s enemies. And on that day, it feasted.

No mortal knows her real name. Rumored as the commander of the first angelic regiment, she led Arengard troops in the vicious assault against the Twelve Legions of Hell at the end of the Second Millennium, fixing her name forever in the songs sungby free people. Then, she disappeared, called home again as quickly as she was sent. When she returned, no one recognized her, for her purpose was not to be served but to serve in the mission appointed to her by her Creator. The paragon of humility and justice, few bear the sword against evildoers with such precision. Perihelion is the name of her weapon, directly imbued with the sun’s fervor to smite those marked out for perdition. No mortal knows her real name, but all mortals know her legendary name. The name that passes their lips when they behold her glory. The name that passes their lips when they accept their fate: AURELIA.