King Paracletus descended from the heights and mounted his horse and marched forth towards Ethermark, knowing the danger outside the walls of the invincible castle of the Holy Fountain, unconquered, impossible to be toppled, and of his grandfather, built stone by stone from rocks, from ores, from crystalline caves with the aid of angels and his bare hands.
As he tightened his reins with fear upon him, fear unknown to his being, he cried out in love for his Father and God, to go forth and slay hell for the coming of his son.
The order of knights, governed by the rule of Neryas, marched in equal speed behind him, in step and in exultation of all the peoples.
They shouted the chants of the evening before, remembering celestial days that will remain unending in their hearts.
They mourned as they beheld their families, Lords, and nobles, minor kings, armored in gold and in crosses emblems of faith, and great servants, mourning the departure from their loved ones, their wives, and their children.
Yet, henceforth, they marched, by horse and by chariot, the great victors under wing of Paracletus the Unconquerable.