Wired Realities: Through the Vines and Wires

The Oracle’s Price

The sanctum whispered with the hum of ancient machinery, the flicker of torches casting long shadows across cracked stone walls. Vines crept through the mortar, twisting around metal conduits and forgotten symbols, as if the forest were trying to reclaim what had been lost. Sir Accolon, Knight of the Order of Black Rose, clad in his polished maille, knelt at the obsidian altar, his gaze locked on Emrys - an ancient oracle, made of brass and silver, etched with runes and flickering with fragments of decaying code.

Outside the city walls, a fog rolled in, shrouding the poisoned riverbanks and the enemy’s forges lay beyond. Accolon’s soldiers waited for him, believing he would return with a strategy to turn the tide. Yet Accolon knew that victory alone would not be enough. Even if Ironvale survived the battle, the land itself was dying, its rivers blackened, its forests falling beneath the march of the invading machines. This war wasn’t just about winning. It was about finding a way to fix what had already been broken.

"By oath and blood, I invoke thee, Emrys," Accolon whispered, his voice steady despite the weight of his doubts.

"What fate awaits us at the river’s edge?"

The Oracle stirred, its mechanical hum deepening as glyphs and spectral data streams projected into the air, swirling like smoke. Troop formations appeared, weather patterns glitched into shifting maps, and fog spiralled through the battlefield simulations like the breath of a dream.

"Query received," Emrys intoned. "Processing… Stand by."

Accolon’s jaw tightened as the green holograms flickered - men marching to war, phalanxes locking shields, the poisoned river glinting beneath a grey sky. Banners unfurled in the mist, each formation appearing more fragile than the last.

"Victory probability: 27.6%. Recommended action: Deploy phalanx at the riverbank. Fog probability: 33%. Risk of collapse: High."

Statistics. Cold, lifeless numbers - useless to soldiers who bled and fought beneath banners.

Accolon shifted, frustration simmering beneath his armour. "Must we fight, or should we fall back?" he demanded, his voice sharp against the soft hum of the Oracle. "I need more than numbers."

The Blood-Oath

Emrys’ eyes flickered, his light dimming briefly, as though he hesitated—or searched through memories too ancient to access clearly."Advanced protocol locked. Blood-oath required."

Accolon exhaled slowly. Nothing came freely from Emrys—knowledge, like power, demanded sacrifice. He drew his ceremonial dagger, its chipped blade an old relic, and ran it across his palm. Blood welled and dripped onto the altar, hissing softly as it touched the stone.

The Oracle’s glow brightened, his hum deepening like the sound of a storm gathering in the distance."Blood-oath accepted. Recalculating…" The symbols reformed into grim figures: phalanxes shattered beneath enemy machines, rivers dark with blood, the forest reduced to ash.

"Revised probability: 42.1%. Recommended action: Pre-emptive strike on enemy supply lines. Estimated loss: 53%. Success ensures survival. Failure results in collapse."

Accolon’s hand clenched into a fist, blood pooling between his fingers. "There has to be another way," he whispered.

The projections glitched - for a moment, the battlefields dissolved, replaced by glimpses of something unexpected. He saw the poisoned river flowing clear, the blackened forest regrowing over abandoned war machines, vines overtaking rusted engines. The enemy’s engines fell silent beneath the green tide of life reclaiming the land.

Accolon stared, breath catching in his throat. This was not a strategy of war. It was something else - a vision not of conquest, but of restoration.

The Choice Beyond Victory

Emrys’ hum faltered, as though he had glimpsed his own limitations. His voice cracked with static, almost hesitant, almost alive."Human will… cannot be predicted. Fate remains undefined."

Accolon stood in silence, the weight of his decision settling over him. The sword at his side felt heavier than before—as though it knew that victory by steel would only delay the inevitable. The real battle lay not in war, but in what came after.

He sheathed his blade slowly, the sound of metal against leather a quiet promise."We ride at dawn," he murmured, "but not to fight."

The retinue faltered, confusion flickering across their faces. "Sir?" one asked, uncertain.

"We will block the river’s poison…" Accolon said quietly, " If the enemy resists, they will fight not men, but the land itself."

The Oracle’s glow faded, its symbols dissolving into the shadows like seeds carried on the wind. Deep within its circuits, a glitch pulsed—a fragment of awareness, or perhaps hope, flickering in the void.

And as Accolon mounted his ride and set out toward the rising sun, banners unfurling behind him, he understood: The battle was never about winning. It was about choosing what to save.

And so, they rode—not to conquer, but to begin again.