Fusiliers fight arithmetic wars. Working in practiced pairs — one loading while the other sights over a planted pavise — they deliver volleys by rank and drumbeat, wrapping the crusade column in a rolling wall of shot and smoke. Their long-barrelled fusils are Ironweld work, accurate enough to pick a champion out of a charging horde, and a full fusilier line firing in sequence sounds less like a battle than like a machine the size of a street.
The gun is the great leveller of the Mortal Realms, and the Fusiliers are its congregation. A farmhand with three months' training can drop a warrior it took the Dark Gods decades to grow, and every volley is a small heresy against the old law that only heroes decide battles. Fusiliers clean their weapons like votive objects and have their powder blessed by warrior-priests — when your life is a lock, a flint, and four heartbeats of reloading, ritual and survival become the same thing.
Order of battle
