"I want every last member of the clergy to be out here! There will be no cowering this night! We face this bastard head-on!" Theodors roared. His voice was being amplified through some carefully woven magics, and his orders were being dispersed accordingly. His words were being echoed by practically all of the conclave -- including Macario, whom he would be working alongside.
"To every condemner, a glorifier! To every inquisitor, a cleric! Pair each with as many paladins as we can!" he continued. The Legion were handling their own scurrying of forces as night fell.
All of the humans were being sheltered within the cathedrals closest to the center of the city. Gold-armored paladins formed protective rings around them, a handful of clergy among them. Some human guard were with them too, but the vast majority of the humans who were more martially trained were elsewhere.
The walls were alive with activity. Ballistae were being loaded for the larger demons sure to appear, almost every single defender was holding at least a crossbow or a polearm, everyone was getting as prepared as they could. In anticipation for the coming of the Betrayer, the inquisitors and condemners had received more specialized training on how to quickly subdue and neutralize anyone who may be succumbing to madness. It was techniques being pioneered by Lazaro that would help them see the light of day, if all went well.
If. What an ugly word.
The Saint herself walked among all of the defenders even as the last light of day faded. Each that she touched felt themselves bolstered and renewed, ready to face the coming dark. Humans and vampires alike bent the knee to her as she passed.
Darkness fell like a headsman's axe. And with it came a dreadful screech that echoed throughout the mountainsides.
All of the vampires of Torrezon heard it and felt it. A twisting of the innards, a pull, a call.
My children, came a dreadful, whispered voice. It is time to free you from your false imprisonment. Come! Come and join me! Else you will find yourselves dying for nothing!
"If we die, we die on our feet!" Theodors roared. A number of curses were spat into the dark, accompanied by the stamping of feet and crashing of armor. "You are the ones who would see us enslaved! We will be more than meager beasts!" The old cardinal grit his teeth, then raised his hands to the infinite void above him. "Alta Torrezon! Show him what we're damn well made of!"
Shapes began to drop out of the vast blackness that had consumed the sky. Not a single star shone. All sources of light -- flickering torches, candlelight, everything but the divine light surrounding Saint Elenda herself and some of the clerics who had been preparing -- went out. More screeching followed. Bats by their thousands, accompanied by things far larger than simple flying mammals, descended upon the city.
"Legion of Dusk!" came the call from High Marshal Vazante. "To the last! Fire!"
---
The seas raged.
The Legion vessels had been staying closer to shore, wishing to provide reinforcement by land at a moment's notice if necessary. This meant that they were putting much trust into the hands of the Coalition to pick up the slack and help keep any of the encroaching heretics from reaching the mainland. Many had gone off on their own pilgrimages, it had been said, and many were expecting to return tonight.
The calling did not make it easy, but they would hold.
They'd have to.
Even if many of those heretical vessels began to open their decks and allow some of the greater children of the dark god who flew to claim the heartcity to join the fight in the skies. They were hungry. They were powerful.
No, that word wasn't enough. This was everblack. The things voids were formed from.
It was open yet suffocating. It was endless yet felt too close, to tight, too small.
There was no ground to walk upon. No walls to touch.
There was nothing.
Until, feeling a weight in one hand, you make something.
---
Another clash of a blade ringing off armor. Another slide of boots on slush on stone.
They had been fighting for hours. The ebb and flow of the battle around them sometimes forced them apart, but they always returned to match blades soon after.
One fought with a grin on her face and with practically reckless abandon. The other fought with measured precision in each blow.
"As dreadfully serious as always, Andreas," the Antifex laughed as her sword rang on the shield of the other. "What, you can't enjoy this?"
"I will take no enjoyment in this, Vona," the High Marshal replied, shoving her back and following with a swing.
Vona snorted. "Too bad for you. I am enjoying every second." She let the blade ride across her armor, letting her get in close enough to batter her shield and find an opening to stab her sword into. Salinas hissed and smashed the champion's face with the edge of her shield as she disengaged, feeling a chnk and watching Vona recoil.
"Cheap trick," she said, black ichor trailing from the wound. The High Marshal's own nose wrinkled, even as the wound began reknitting itself.
Her regeneration was coming from the blood around them. Salinas had noticed it the first time she had scored a hit across her wings, slicing one of them nearly in half. There was hardly a sign of the damage left behind.
Salinas, on the other hand, had no such crutch. The glorifiers helped where they could -- from a distance, of course -- but she was still bleeding.
Vona knew it. She knew it. Only one would be walking away.
---
Light.
You see light.
You feel light. Warmth.
You move towards it. Somehow, you don't know how. It doesn't matter.
You see someone there, out on the edge of your perceptions. You know her. The glow is coming from her.
She's talking to someone. You don't...
... recognize him. You can't understand what they are saying at first.
Until, of course, you speak.
"My Saint?"
The words surprise you, as does your voice. They sound clear and crisp. A contrast to the dark, suffocating and thick.
Her eyes turn toward you. They are as bright as the sunset. His eyes do too. In them, you see the silver of moonlight.
"You've brought another," he says, looking you up and down. "I don't recognize you."
"I did not expect to be followed," she says. You sense something behind her words. They are tense. Annoyance? Disappointment? Sorrow?
"My deepest apologies." You dip your head and bow, surprised you still have your body about you. You can hardly feel it.
You are more surprised to see your old vestments.
"Well, I do not mind speaking with an audience," the moonlit man says. He looks back to the Saint. "Where were we? Bargaining, yes?"
Bargaining?
"I would not call it bargaining considering we hold the upper hand." There is a cold fury in her eyes.
Laughter from the other. An easy smile on his face. He has fangs. "Do you now?"
She looks to you, looking down to a point at your side. "I do now."
You look down. The weight is a spear.
You nearly blind yourself looking at the concentrated power of an interplanar sun.
---
"Tighten up!" Guitirre shouts. His skymarchers closed ranks around him, preparing for another wing of demons.
That's what they had taken to calling them. Wings. Or flocks. Whichever.
They caught them and deterred them or destroyed them outright. Most of the demons were meeting their blades and blows now that a coordinated effort to better protect the skies was being made. Guitirre didn't blame Sarria or Vazante for not taking control there -- the only other versed enough in their particular arrangements and formations was Salinas or Arguel, and they were south.
But he was here now. He could give them more of a fighting chance.
Aster was still below, growling and barking but not doing much else. She was growing tired. He didn't blame her, they were fighting for quite some time now.
How long until dawn? Would they see it?
He ran a traitor through with the rapier he held in hand, his dancing blade catching a spiked chain and allowing its wielder to be taken out by other soldiers. Blood coated him, as it did all others fighting close to him. Some his own, some not.
Light of dusk, he was growing tired. All of them were. He wondered if Arturo would even be able to stand upright long enough to fight whatever was attacking his home.
The demons never tired. But they knew that all of them, even those with the gift, did. His swings were getting sloppy. Skymarchers were falling out of formation without him shouting to keep them in line. Each pass of a deathdrinker or a bloodletter left him more and more drained.
Other varieties of demons were filling the air with smoke and ash. It gave the illusion of fighting in a burning grave. Perhaps they were.
He flew back to dodge a thick, cleaving thing -- he could barely tell what the weapon was -- following through by stabbing his assailant through the head. His weapon had gotten stuck in it, and so he had to follow the body down as he pried it free, grunting when a demon tackled him into the side of the wall as he flew back up. He bashed them with his forehead, smashing them in the face with the basket of his weapon, then kicked the body away.
Others had spotted him and would be coming to give him a hard time. The traitors remembered him. The demons just saw an easy snack.
They wouldn't be getting one.
---
"That? You think you have leverage with it?" the moonlit man chuckles.
You look back at him, and you blink away the light. Your Saint speaks again, her voice devoid of the mirth of the man.
"It can kill."
"Can it now?" he asks. He now looks at you. "You can kill with it?"
"I already have."
"Ah, that priestess, yes?"
You do not know how he knows that. He must read the confusion on your face.
"You don't quite know what this is, do you?" he says, voice soft. "She's never explained. Nor have I."
"Tarrian-"
"Elenda," the moonlit man says, dipping his chin and raising his brow. You blink in confusion. You know that name.
"You're-"
"Yes, Venerable Tarrian," he says, elaborately bowing. "The very same one that you and yours saw fit to censor."
"I do not understand." You feel your brows furrow together.
"Because Elenda never saw fit to tell you how she obtained the gift," Tarrian said with a sigh. He gestures to the darkness around you. "Allow me, then, to fill in that gap. You stand now at the literal bounds between life and death, my friend."
You follow his hand, looking beyond your Saint, beyond her... her enigmatic demeanor, into the everblack.
And then... you see. You see the balance, two scales set even to each other, and you realize that you are standing on the fulcrum.
"How-"
"Mavren," your Saint says to you. You feel your voice die in your throat. Tarrian laughs.
"Ah, let him speak. Let him learn. He deserves to know some things, no? Especially since we are trying to bargain. In fact, I won't speak another word until he does," he says, turning those silver eyes to your Saint's own gold.
You look to her for permission, bowing your head in deference. She is your Saint. Your sun. Your guiding light. You've dedicated everything to her.
She stares at Tarrian for a long moment, then finally turns those eyes to you.
"Very well. Ask your questions."
You give a bow, extending your free hand. A symbolic gesture.
You open your mouth to speak your stifled question.
---
Salinas is falling.
She was shoved from the wall after she parried and left herself too unbalanced.
She lands, heavy, on a pile of ice-covered bodies. She groans as she feels her ribs crack from the weight and strain. Vona laughs, leaping over the edge, landing lightly on her feet nearby.
"Come on. On your feet!" she says, grinning. The High Marshal growls at her, pushing herself off, muttering a small prayer for the paladin she had crushed. At least they were already gone.
She gets back into a defensive stance. She feels a spear of rib somewhere it shouldn't be, and her vision was fuzzed. Vona flies at her.
---
"Now that that is out of the way..." Tarrian places his hands on his sides. You feel confused. Uncertain. Even with this knowledge, you--
"Let's talk practically, yes?" he smiles, and his smile reminds you uncomfortably of someone else. The silvered eyes, the strange insincerity of the smile itself...
"You want Torrezon. That is not happening."
"Mhm."
"We can kill him."
"So you boldly claim," Tarrian says with a sigh. "So many have, you know. I heard them." He lifts his chin in one direction. "Many champions who despise him still."
You notice your Saint tense slightly. "This is different."
"Show me," Tarrian says with that unnerving grin. Those eyes turn back to you, and the smile widens slightly. "Go on."
You do not know what to do.
Except... you do. Somehow. And you're doing it. The weight, it is a staff -- a spear -- something not forged of your home, yet familiar as though it were. Your hand is curled around raw, concentrated sunlight.
You point it towards Tarrian. You feel its warmth. But you feel other things wrapped inside of it too.
Rage. Hope. Comfort. Acceptance. Wanderlust.
Family. Friends. A sense of belonging, of community. Home.
You realize you are holding more than just sunlight. You are holding belief itself, distilled into this one weapon.
You pull back your arm.
"Wait!" he says suddenly. Hands up, knees bent, smile wide. "Don't shoot the messenger, right?"
"Will you listen, then?" your Saint asks. Tarrian looks between the weapon in your hands, then your face, then your Saint. The smile turns up slightly.
"I am listening, Elenda. Let us discuss terms."
---
He rushes through the tall towering spires of the Cathedral of Dusk, cold wind biting at his face as he flies. He has a number of demons on his tail and they've been painfully agile. Guitirre dips lower to avoid something long and spiked whipping past. The diversion had been necessary, he reminded himself.
That squire shouldn't have been there.
And now he was being chased through the city by a pack of hungry beasts. He's faster and more agile than most of them -- the funestus and bloodletters had to peel off or be picked off -- but there were plenty of smaller ones that were able to keep up with him annoyingly well.
He wove himself through a tight space between a steeple and a wall when his eyes caught something; a glorifier was being hunted. Guitirre didn't spare a glance at the demons tailing him before diving down, hard and fast, right into its back, smashing it like overripe fruit against the cobbles. He disentangled himself from the corpse and the mess, wincing as he felt something in his shoulder feel slightly out of place. He looked up at the bastards that were following him, preparing to have a go at them, before he realized they had redirected and flew off elsewhere. He let out a sigh, praying they wouldn't be too much trouble for the other defenders.
"Are you alright, lad?" he asked the glorifier. The cleric nodded, looking tired and shaken.
"I am, sir. Thank you." He looked at the High Marshal's shoulder. "Allow me."
"You have others-"
"You saved my life, sir," the glorifier said with some measure of finality. "It is the least I can do."
Guitirre allowed himself a smile. "Very well, little preacher. Do what you must."
---
"You are not in a position to be demanding much," Tarrian was saying. He kept looking between you and your Saint. "While that thing could most certainly unmake me, I still doubt it would unmake him."
"It does not have to. Ensuring he is kept in a state of perpetual agony also works for our purposes," your Saint says. She says it with such ease that it makes you glad you are not the subject of her words.
"And those purposes are...?" Tarrian makes a circular motion with one hand.
"Containment if we cannot have him destroyed outright," your Saint says, crossing her arms. You realize that she is still adorned the very same way as she had been before, yet you are different. Your mind tries to recall Tarrian's explanation of this place, but it comes up...
... fuzzy. Blank. And yet he said it only-
"Right, yes. Containment," he's saying. He's nodding as though it's obvious. "You think this can contain him?"
There's a pause. A hesitation. You can feel it, as can he. He laughs.
"It is a start," your Saint says, looking at the weapon. That is what it is now, not just a simple spear. That word doesn't feel good enough to you.
"A start is all we need," you hear yourself saying. Now you have both of their attention, and you feel the supremely uncomfortable sensation of drowning.
"He will break free of any prison you devise for him now. He knows of them already. Again, he is still a god. And you, my dear friends, are close, but not quite there." Tarrian has that strange grin on his face. Your skin crawls, but you refuse to show it.
"Then we will construct a new one." There is a look of calm determination in the way your Saint holds herself.
"While he is at your gates?" Tarrian's brows raise. His hands are steepled together.
"You said this was bargaining," you hear yourself say. "I think this is becoming more of a negotiation."
"Hmm..." Tarrian rubs his chin. There is a short beard there. His silver eyes turn away, into the darkness before he turns back again. The smile is back. "Very well. You want to stall for time then, yes? Cobble something together for him?"
"If that is what we must do to get him off our throats for the time being," your Saint replies cooly.
Tarrian smiles at her. It scares you how sincere it seems this time.
"What will you give for that time?"
---
Salinas is in pain. Vona has been able to score more and more hits and grazes, just enough to go from annoying to a worry. She still feels her broken ribs keenly, and she had to replace her weapon twice now in the fight.
Vona was toying with her. She was delighting in this. It was a challenge rather than just being a slaughter.
But Salinas knew that she was starting to grow bored, and she was never more dangerous than when she was bored. Her first set of servants were evidence enough of that.
After all, that's why she was sent off to Ixalan. To get her away from here.
Even as the High Marshal tired, even as she parried and twisted just out of reach of lethal strikes, even as she could wound her and watch those wounds reknit and feel some level of despair, she kept flicking her eyes upward. She thought it was bloodloss or something being cut deep inside of her that was making her dizzy enough to hallucinate.
Vona started to notice. She growled and closed the distance between the two, now fighting where merchant's stalls were usually set.
"What are you looking at? Hm? Are you expecting some divine savior to reach down and pluck you from this?" she asked. Her voice was roughened. She was tiring too, even if she was doing a better job at not showing it as easily.
"I don't need a divine savior, Vona. I just need to kill you," Salinas answered, grimacing as she raised her shield to block another strike. Vona growled again, deciding to look up herself. Her expression changed, then. Salinas realized she hadn't been hallucinating.
The sky was growing lighter.
Dawn was coming.
Salinas had her shield up and ready, and tried to take advantage of the distraction. It was a risky gambit, but it was her only good opening. She thrusted her sword forward, going right for the throat, but Vona was faster, slipping right inside her guard and stabbing her own sword right through her body, from under one arm up and through her collarbone on the other side. Salinas let out a choked grunt, blood already welling around the blade. Her grip slackened.
"Even if that light is coming," Vona hissed. "You will not be there to see it."
"Then I'll drag you into the abyss with me," Salinas said. With her fading strength, she raised her sword and stabbed down.
---
You feel fear. Horror. Sorrow.
"My Saint," you say, your voice breaking. "You can't-"
"If this is what must be done, then so be it," she says. There is that cool determination about her. You find yourself positively stunned. The grin on Tarrian is even more genuine.
"Very well. I think he will be happy with these terms." He claps his hands together. "One year. No battles between now and then. You will be able to lick your wounds and scramble for a solution before we return. But!" He grinned wider. "Remember, we will be doing the very same."
"We will be ready," your Saint says.
"Oh, as will we." Tarrian nods. "Do not fret, little one," he says, addressing you directly now. "All is not yet lost. Take what time you have and use it wisely and well."
He gives a wave, and you feel yourself falling, and falling, until--
---
Guitirre watches the sky growing paler. He finds himself incredulous at it. There's already cheering and screams of the horrid damned to join them.
And then he spots something he wasn't expecting to see; Pontifex Fein, falling from the darkness. Guitirre quickly thanks the glorifier who had been tending to him before he immediately leaps into the air in order to intercept him.
He catches him before he smashes onto the hard stone below, bringing him to the ground carefully.
"Pontifex Fein?" he asks. The body stirs. The eyes blink open.
And then, Guitirre sees nothing but light.
---
When dawn finally graces the continent of Torrezon, it illuminates the sheer amount of damage and horror left behind. Bodies of traitors remain while the true-blooded demon and children of Aclazotz are slowly unmade in the cleansing light.
Soldiers and warriors all over the continent and even in its adjacent seas rejoice at the sight of the sunrise. Some even begin to dance or peel off their armor, not even caring for the frozen winds that accompany it.
The Darkest Night had passed. The days ahead meant more sunlight, more daytime, that the depths of winter were behind them. Now was the time for growth, for recuperation. For the naming of a new Venerable, who would also lead the Church of Dusk as pontifex.
It was hardly unheard of. A few of the past predecessors had been canonized in their lifetimes before they passed on. An address would be made at midday, but for now, his first edict upon his return was simple; "Let us mend our wounds and clean what we can."
---
And so, they did. Cardinal Theodors had called for the killing of all traitors left behind, but some had begged for clemency. Pontifex Fein was willing to grant it conditionally, and so they were instead all bound and chained for later interrogation. The pontifex had informed the cardinal that he would like a private word, but only after other matters were taken care of.
---
Guitirre met with the other High Marshals to do head counts on who was left and help organize the wounded and walking. Aster was remaining at his side, though she was whining and begging for attention and food. Sarria had brought a bit of dried meat for her to quell her, cooing about how adorable she was. Guitirre and Vazante exchanged very amused looks, considering this was a man who usually hated seeing mastiffs in the barracks.
"I thought they were dirty, slobbering little beasts?" Guitirre asked with a smile on his face.
"They are," Sarria said gruffly. The big man pushed himself up off the ground and gave Aster a good pat on the behind.
"Right." Guitirre nodded as Vazante snickered. Sarria glowered at them.
"This one happens to be very endearing."
"Whatever you say, Bitores."
"Oh, please, your husband is the one who actually likes the mutts, Catarina," Sarria said with a snort. There was still a glimmer of amusement in his eye, and the three exhausted commanders shared a small laugh.
Once things were a bit more stabilized, he'd go onto the network and see how the Storm Fleet and the rest of his Coalition allies had fared.
And, hopefully, he'd be able to hear from Arturo.
---
Lazaro nearly wept with relief at the coming dawn. He sagged against the stones of the shelter his brother had made. Danjikisei had poked its head out to watch the sunrise, or what little of it the kami could see from the shelter.
"I t . . . i s. . . " it said. It tilted its head. ". . . n i c e . . ." it landed on. Lazaro nodded.
"Nice," he agreed. "Relieving." He then looked to his brother, his sons, and his father -- fathers, really -- and came forward to bring them all into an embrace.
---
Austello held.
Cardinal Sirocco was covered in filth and blood by the time it came, but by the blood of the Venerables, it came.
The Antifex had fled. There were Legionnaires who were calling for her to be followed, to properly rout her, but High Marshal Arguel had told them to pull back. Overextending would get more of them killed. They needed to assess damages.
And so, they did. The older cardinal helped direct the clergy where she could, and let the secret out that Pontifex Fein had indeed returned, and should be in Alta Torrezon.
"By the color of the sky, I think he made it," she said. The smile she wore faded when it was revealed who one of the casualties of the siege was.
The cardinal rushed to where the body was found, kneeling next to it and letting out an anguished cry. Word was spreading throughout the ranks of defenders like wildfire. High Marshal Andreas Salinas was dead.
But there was something strange about the body. It was the first thing Arguel noticed when he approached.
Vona left her sword behind.
---
History will remember this as many things. The Darkest Night, the Longest Night, the Darkest Hour, all manner of things are already passing through the mouths of the humans and vampires alike. But all that I wish to be remembered was that this was the night where hope prevailed.
I will not be so naive to say we won. This victory is but a temporary one. A greater battle and greater war will follow, but for now, we have earned a reprieve. Time to rejoice, to heal, to try and clean and prepare ourselves for the true victory to follow.
Especially knowing what will follow that victory. I fear for what may follow afterwards.
But, this morning, I do not let such fears darken my thoughts. Instead, I will mourn for those we lost, and celebrate those who are still with us. This will be a fragile time for us all. Many great lessons will need to be learned. And they will be. But for now, I think we've all deserved a rest.
You set down the pen, leaning back in your chair. It creaks a little under the weight. You still wear the chiton you were given during your journeying, your wings folded a bit awkwardly, but comfortably enough. New and more fitting attire would be commissioned, but for now, it would do.
Your mind drifts to Dhazdoro, Menea, and Malkonia. Dhazdoro was speaking with the Saint, and Menea and Malkonia were helping the wounded. You were going to pay them a visit and thank them for their aid and tell them you are even more in their debt.
A smile crosses your face, even if you know that statement is not entirely true.
But then, a knock. "Come in," you say.
It is a young acolyte. Newly blooded, more than likely.
"I am sorry for disturbing you, Venerable-"
"Pontifex still works," you gently correct. "And all other monikers thereof. I do not wish to assume that title just yet."
"Right, yes, my apologies, Pontifex," the acolyte says, dipping his head. "Cardinal Ayere is ready to meet with you when you are."
Your lips draw into a line. You drum your fingers on the desk. There is a stack of papers next to them, as well as a small, slim volume.
You nod. You ponder for a moment, then look back at the acolyte.
"I think I am ready for him now."
The acolyte nods, and ducks out of the door. A few moments later, it opens, and the cardinal walks in, bowing his head in deference.
"Pontifiex Fein," he says, wearing that smile you find so familiar now. His silvered eyes are slightly narrowed. Cautious. Afraid.
"Cardinal Ayere," you say, lacing your fingers together. "There is much to discuss."
It was an exceedingly rare thing for any vampire of Torrezon to be sentenced to exsanguination. It was something reserved for only the most terrible of offenses, and sanguis extremis -- death through exsanguination -- was even rarer still.
Luckily, that was not the fate awaiting Cecurro. Instead, he faced sanguis lassitudo. It was so named for the fact that this form of exsanguination was drawn out over the course of weeks and left the condemned weak and drained afterwards, in a more pliable state for penance and absolution afterwards.
The cell he was locked within was dark. He was left suspended in chains, unable to touch any surface of the cell itself, wrists and legs bound. Here he would remain between "appointments", as they were colloquially known.
The thick iron door leading to the cell slowly creaked open. Cardinal Theodors slipped inside, and the door shut with a dull thud behind him. His strange silvered eyes glinted in the dark.
"Cecurro," he said, keeping the greeting formal. "My apologies for the late arrival. Discussing the terms of your absolution has been more arduous than anticitipated."
The traitor was on their knees, immobilized, with both wings twisted and broken. Their eyes were wide and full of pain, their expression one of stubborn defiance. Lazaro kept his eyes on them, keeping their bonds taut. The other man in the room -- his grandfather -- had a very pleased smile on his face.
"Record time, boy. Very well done indeed," said Cardinal Theodors.
"Thank you," Lazaro said, a bit of strain in his voice. The cardinal came up and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Well, there is not much we can do for this one. It's beyond the light of redemption, obviously," he said with a pitiful sigh. "We may as well put it to good use, yes?"
Lazaro tightened the bonds, ready to bring the traitor to their feet. "I'll bring them back-"
"No, no. We have plenty, and our prisons are getting cramped. I think it'll do well helping us in another way." Theodors made a dismissive sweeping gesture. "Drink, Lazaro. You'll need your strength. The Darkest Night is nearly upon us."
"What?" Lazaro was so surprised he nearly let slip the magic he was using to hold down the traitor. "Grandfather, I can't. That is-"
"A minor heresy which can be forgiven and one that none will have to know of," Theodors responded easily. "I gave you this hunger for a reason. Let this foul heretic lend you the strength you need. In its death shall you give others life." He made another gesture. "Go on, boy."
The cleric shook his head. "I'll be fine, I can do-"
"You will not be fine. I see the exhaustion that's settled into you. No one is going to disturb us, I have explicitly given an edict for it to be so," Theodors said. "I trust you to have restraint. And if you do not, I am here to ensure that you do."
Lazaro hesitated for another moment more before he sighed. He approached the traitor, who stared at him the entire time. He got down on one knee.
"Blessed be the sinner whose life flows out of them and into me," he spoke quietly. "Blessed be the Saint for providing this most holy gift, and blessed may the strength that empowers me so I may continue the work in her name." He tilted their head up, wavered a moment, before he bit into them. They struggled for a few brief heartbeats before they went limp as Lazaro fed.
"Good," the cardinal said, smiling. "Drink well, boy. We have-"
"Cardinal Theodors!" a shrill reedy voice called. Theodors looked to the currently closed door to the experimental chamber he and Lazaro were in. Lazaro still had his fangs in the traitor's throat.
"I will handle this. You finish," he said with a wave as he strode over to the door on the far side of the darkened room. "I was to not be disturbed under any circumstances," the cardinal called. "What is the meaning of-"
"Saint Elenda, blessed be her name, is sending for you, your grace," said the voice through the door again. That gave him pause. Lazaro dropped the body, wiping black ichor from his face. The cardinal looked back to him.
"I will... take care of the mess, Grandfather," Lazaro said softly. "You should not keep her waiting."'
The cardinal looked him over and nodded. "Burn it if you must," he practically hissed. "Very well. Take me to her at once."
---
The conclave had been gathered by the time the cardinal entered. He was able to keep the utter surprise off his face as his peers -- though in reality, they had become moreso his subordinates over these past few weeks, and they knew it as well as he did -- turned to regard him as he strode in. He was not informed of a gathering being called. He mentally brought up his defenses. He could feel something was amiss.
The cathedral was cold, light from elaborate sconces casting long shadows upon the beautiful stonework. Beneath a great motif of the Saint as she had appeared to end the Apostacine Wars, standing before the pulpit and the gathered clergy, was the Blessed One herself.
As he entered, Theodors bowed his head in deference and respect, one hand making a clockwise gesture over his heart, his fist closing over it. He came to kneel before the Saint, offering out his closed fist. The gesture mirrored that of the first priests to declare her a saint, an offering of the heart and soul. Silence reigned, and he felt the eyes of the other cardinals upon him, as well as that soul-searing gaze of the one whom he had labored for all his life.
He felt her hand lightly touch his own, and he slowly got back to his own two feet, head still bowed.
"Cardinal Theodors Ayere," the Saint said. He did not meet her eyes. He knew better. "I leave you and the conclave in charge of maintaining things here in Alta Torrezon for naught but a few weeks in my absence. And yet, I have been receiving several messages -- including testimony from one of the High Marshals personally -- that you have been overstepping your bounds. I demand an explanation."
Theodors squared his shoulders. He knew this was coming. He had been more than prepared.
"Blessed One," he said, eyes still away from her in respect, "may I have the permission to speak freely?"
"Granted, Cardinal."
"Much of what you have been hearing has been exaggeration," he began. "All of my actions have been in the greater interest of the Church and in the name of Torrezon. If you, or anyone, wishes to question me, I will have no issues in explaining all of my motives. But if you seek to reprimand me, I request this be postponed until after we have dealt with our greatest enemy."
There was some murmuring among the other assembled cardinals. Theodors stood his ground.
"You seek to evade my judgement?" the Saint asked, her tone cold.
"I do not. I will submit myself in full to whatever you deem right, Blessed One, but I will say that if you seek my removal, it will destabilize us too fast and too soon," Theodors responded. "Many have come to look to me as a guiding light in these darkened times, whether my actions have had the full approval of my peers or not. They can testify to the truth of this statement. I have little issue with answering for my actions and edicts, I am simply asking we do this at a more opportune time, when we are looking to rebuild rather than rebuff."
Silence followed his words.
"It is true, Blessed One," one of the other cardinals said. "Theodors has much of the people's support at this time, as well as the majority of the clergy operating within the city."
"The Legion takes issue with him," Elenda said.
"And yet, they still fight at our shoulders," Theodors answered, raising two fingers as a sign of forgiveness. "I have spoken with the High Marshals. We have come to an agreement. The Legion has not been forced to enjoin with this inquisition I have called, but any who wish to are free to. And, I will say, many have of their own volition."
"High Marshal Guitirre is thinking that you're a madman," Elenda said, her voice deceptively soft. There was a twitch that came to Theodors's face then.
"We have always been at odds in some measure, Blessed One," Theodors said by means of explanation. "I assure you, I will be more than willing to answer for everything, but only after the Darkest Night. We cannot be having more division at such a crucial time. I implore my fellow members of the conclave to support me in this, if nothing else."
He stole a look at them. Most were swathed in thickened vestments in an attempt to withstand the freezing cold. Gold and black, with wrappings inscribed with prayers. Theodors noted that Sorocco was still missing. Still in Austello, he presumed. She most likely wanted to defend the city she had come to know as home. He did not blame her; the way she felt about Austello, he had come to feel about Alta Torrezon. This was his city, and Austello was hers.
"I will voice my assent," one of the cardinals said. The voice sounded cautious and unsure. Theodors himself was surprised when he realized it was his counterpart Macario of the Order of Glory who spoke in his defense. "We have but hours until the Betrayer seeks to make his attempt at victory. We cannot be divided now. Cardinal Theodors will answer for this, as we have petitioned" - now that got his attention - "but his ask for forbearance is reasonable, my Saint."
"What of the rest of you?" Elenda asked. "Are you all in accord?"
Other voices were raised in agreement. Theodors offered a deep bow.
"I swear to you, I will explain everything, and I shall give nothing but the full truth," the cardinal said. "But for now, we must prepare."
"Where is Pontifex Fein?" asked another of the cardinals - Gonzalo, looking ever more like a mastiff swathed in his thick woolen garb. This time, Theodors did raise his eyes towards the Saint.
"He will be with us," she answered carefully. Theodors heard the hesitation there. She wasn't convinced.
"Whether he is here or not, we ought to be ready for each eventuality," Theodors said. "If it pleases my fellows, I wish to call a general assembly of every clergymen in the city. We shall meet at midday."
"And we shall meet before then to discuss how we would like to direct things," Macario said with some subtle emphasis on we. Theodors nodded to him.
"Naturally," he answered, giving his best approximation of a disarming smile.
"I will be meeting with Her Majesty by that time. I expect not to come back to a den of frothing zealotry when I return," the Saint said with some hardness to her voice. Theodors allowed a more genuine smile to creep onto his face.
"My zeal is tempered, and my faith pure," he answered.
"Then this meeting is adjourned. Get the word out to your subordinates of your meeting. Invite the Legion, they will be the ones fighting most of this, and ensure their words are heard as well," the Saint commanded.
"By your will," the cardinals answered. Final bows were offered before the assembly began to break away. Theodors stalked his way back down to the lower levels, deciding to take out his ambient frustrations on some sorry soul who decided hunger was worth more than faith.
The condemnation of a cardinal was one of the rarest events in the history of the Church of Dusk. It was something that had only occurred six times prior.
One being accused of one of the crimes considered a high heresy was even rarer. It had only occurred once when the then-clergy Tarrian had been exposed for his heretical writings venerating a dark god. That trial had been hidden behind many locked doors, kept away from the rest of the burgeoning Church of Dusk to try and prevent a potential schism.
This trial, however, would be made a little more public.
The lowest clergy allowed to attend were the bishops, all of whom had been called back to Alta Torrezon with all haste. A few hundred made their appearance; many were still afield, and had to write apologies for their absence as the needs of their flocks were too great. By all estimates, however, the majority were here, and that was all that would be required.
Every single cardinal was summoned and present. No excuses. Not in a matter such as this. They had been arranged in more special seating to the left and to the right of the hall this was taking place within.
The Legion had also been largely barred from being allowed to bear witness to the trial. While many stood guard outside the cathedral this was taking place inside, none were present. Not even the High Marshals. This was a clerical matter, and within the clergy it would remain.
Pontifex Fein stood before a beautifully carved dais, hands clasped in front of him. His new vestments allowed his wings to move freely without needing to fear destroying his clothes entirely. At present, they were folded like a cloak around his shoulders, the strange starlit markings of the inner membrane twinkling in the low light. His eyes were still as dark as they were before he had embraced his ascension to becoming a Venerable, but now there was something deeper in them. Some had sworn they saw a microcosm of the stars themselves while taking oaths or giving tribute. His face was neutral, but stern.
Near to him was a long and low table which had been covered in neatly arrayed books and papers. Evidence. Confessions. It had already been shared among the gathered cardinals in the nights leading to this.
To say, however, that it was only high clergy present would be a lie. Two souls violated this edict by necessity; the grandchildren of the accused, Cecurro and Lazaro Ayere. They had been offered special seating in order to be more easily called upon if required. Lazaro had opted to stay near to his adopted father rather than be singled out. Their presence did cause a bit of a stir among the ones who gathered, but Llorente assured them that an explanation would be given in due time.
The accused himself was standing alone. He stood upon a beautiful mosaic of the dusk rose, the holy symbol of the church, while moonlight that streamed in through one of the high stained glass windows depicting the Saint bathed him in silver. It was contrasted by the steady flickering orange and yellow from the candles that had been lit, more out of habit and comfort than necessity. Not a single soul here was anything but a vampire, after all.
He stood tall, shoulders back, head held high. His hands, still black-stained, were clutched behind his back, nearly blending in to the deep black of the vestments he wore. He came in his full regalia as cardinal, as did many of his fellows, not wishing to look meek for a time such as this. His silvered eyes swept over the assembly, and even looked to the pontifex himself. An audacious thing, yes. But he was already damned in one sense.
Bells sang the hour. Midnight. All talking within the cathedral ceased.
"Brothers and sisters," Mavren Fein began, his voice echoing so that all in attendance could hear him. He spoke in the lingua sancta of Torrezon. "I thank you all for attending, and I apologize for the short notice of this summons. This is an issue most dire, and it is one that requires teaching and remediation at once, without delay."
All eyes were focused on the pontifex now, including that of the cardinal accused.
"Cardinal Theodors Ayere," he continued. "In most normal circumstances, your overreaching in my absence would require nothing more than an assurance of penance and some closer and more restricted guidance. Demotion would be something considered as a temporary measure, though ultimately it may not have been necessary." The bishops exchanged some glances and whispers among themselves, but the cardinals remained steadfastly silent.
Theodors did not waver. He barely even moved as the pontifex spoke. He kept those strange silver eyes on him. Mavren could not help but hear the echoing of bells through time.
"Tonight, you stand before us accused of high heresy," he went on. "There is evidence that you have altered the Rite of Redemption on several occasions in order to purposefully manufacture those who would hunger for the blood of our own."
That drew a reaction from the assembled bishops. Theodors still did not move. He did not even blink.
"While many of those whom were affected by you were granted mercy after they succumbed to madness, two survived and still live with this burden that you have placed upon them to this day. You have decided to poison the souls of your own grandsons," Mavren said. Gasps went up around the assembled bishops. That got Theodors to finally move. A firming of the jaw. A twitch of the mouth. Disappointment came from the cardinals. Some even looked aggrieved and betrayed. One or two looked a bit haughty or smug.
"You are to answer for this heresy," the pontifex said, "and you are to be taught why it is even considered as such. This is obviously a lesson you have forgotten, and one that I wish to remind to all the high clergy."
Theodors bowed his head to Mavren. The pontifex spoke a word, and one of the books upon the table opened, a pen being readied. He then beckoned toward the assembled cardinals. One who had been sitting in the front row strode over, standing between Theodors and Mavren. It was the other cardinal who helped lead the Order of Condemnation, Cardinal Porfirio, a friend to Theodors in many words. There was a look of deep sympathy and guilt on his face. Theodors only nodded to him, and the other condemner began to weave an enchantment around him. This would bind him and bid him to only speak the truth as he fully understood it. Any indication of information being withheld or an attempt to lie would be known to Porfirio, who then took up a place beside the pontifex. A common enchantment for condemnation.
"First, let us hear your reasoning and justification for this... work." Mavren gestured to a small book on the table. "I shall then give to you my lesson. Then I shall pass my judgment."
Theodors nodded. He did not look back to find his grandchildren among the crowd.
"Begin."
"I began at a time of uncertainty for the Church of Dusk," Theodors said, and the pen dutifully began transcribing his words. "After we had begun stalling our advances beyond the Deoro, people were beginning to more evidently not put their faith in the Church nor in the Saint herself. Many were giving lip-service to the workings of the clergy, and so I decided to see if I could begin rectifying this at the source. Alterations to the Rite of Redemption were not unheard of when it came to making it safer or to prevent unwanted outcomes."
There was a shifting in Mavren's posture, but he continued to listen. All was quiet in the cathedral, save the voice of the cardinal as he gave his recollection.
"My alterations began small. The prayer associated with the Rite itself, the various oaths and pledges given, all were slightly changed in order to see if this would have any effect upon those who took it. My findings were that it could, as we already knew," Theodors made a small gesture with one hand. "But none were to the degree that I was looking for, nor were the candidates acting how I had wished."
Mavren continued to say nothing. His eyes were staring into Theodors, as though he was reading his soul.
"Several were, indeed, killed. Granted mercy after their hungers became far too uncontrolled and untamed. Some of whom even begged for it, may their souls find rest," Theodors continued, making a sign with one hand. "Since this was not working, I decided to turn to another means of controlling the Rite. I am a man who has always been incredibly devout and steadfast in my faith. Many would call me a zealot, but that is not something I shy away from. Thus, I decided to try something that would, indeed, count as heresy." He paused. The barbs of the enchantment began to wind around his mind, and he cleared his throat.
Mavren looked at him expectantly. Porfirio looked saddened and hurt.
"I began adding my own blood to what would be the First Meal for those who were finishing the Rite," Theodors said. Clamor went up among the assembled clergy, and Mavren raised his hands.
"Peace," he called. "Continue."
"The first few times it happened led to disastrous results," Theodors admitted with a sigh. "Many who took it began cannibalizing the others who were part of their class and were subsequently put down. I retired the idea, for a time, until I decided to undertake a Blood Fast for clearer understanding of what to do. It was in its aftermath that I understood what must be done. My own blood would not work for those who were not of my actual bloodline. This is when I turned to my only living family I had left at the time; my grandsons."
Among the crowd, Lazaro tensed and tried to look smaller. Llorente put an arm around him. The other bishops were staring.
"Cecurro is the older of the two, and thus took his Rite first. It was slightly delayed on account of the death of his father as well as a few other factors, of which we do have written account and accord, but afterwards he was doing quite well for himself. I had added some minor alterations to the Rite that would be distributed to Lazaro in order to aid him, as I feared the skittishness within him would restrict him and prevent him from achieving the greatness he deserved," Theodors explained. His tone was even, almost nonchalant. Proud. Although the cardinals had read the accounts and journals, a number of them were still shocked and appalled, mostly by how singularly unrepentant he had seemed.
"And it helped tremendously. Both of them were imbued with such great zeal and both began to flourish. Cecurro was on his way to becoming one of the most prolific condemners of the Order, as was Lazaro. And there was no sign of them succumbing as all of the others did." Theodors allowed the smallest of smiles to creep into his words. Lazaro shivered at it. At the barest edges of his perception, he felt a hand resting on his shoulder, and it did not belong to Llorente. "None until, of course, my eldest grandson was captured, starved, and practically broken by the people of the Free Cities."
"A condemnation you helped undertake," Mavren said slowly.
"One which he has since paid for," Theodors said, standing a bit taller. He was taller than the pontifex by a few inches, and Mavren thought it to be a poor attempt at potential intimidation.
"I am not going to recind the judgment passed, as I do agree with the ultimate decision," Mavren said, nodding.
"All of this to say that all of my actions were born from a need and want to preserve the faith," Theodors said as he clasped his blackened hands in front of him. "Never was it done as a means to usurp power or to dismantle the church. It was done in the opposite. Besides, I swiftly began to realize that the side effect of hungering for the blood of the condemned would also act as a potent motivator for the two of them. I do not know if this thesis has been entirely vindicated or not, but I would be more than willing to see."
"You speak as though this is nothing more than our usual experimentation with the Rite of Redemption," Mavren said flatly. Theodors nodded.
"As it is so, just through a slightly more personal angle," the cardinal replied. There was a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.
"You stand by all of your actions, past and present?"
"I do," Theodors answered. "I believe that I have erred in some ways, but my intentions were always pure. I wish to help bring us towards a better and brighter and more faithful future. I fully stand by my actions and doubt they can truly be called sinful."
Mavren sighed, shaking his head slowly.
"You do not understand, then," he said, his voice almost sad.
"Understand what?" Theodors asked, his smile still uneasy. Mavren let out a deeper sigh, his shoulders dropping slightly.
"Cardinal, do you understand why we consider the consumption of the blood of fellow vampires to be heresy?" he asked. Theodors drew his brows together.
"Because we are holy," he said with a small, nervous bit of laughter. "But surely this small side effect can be excused if it means creating the next generation of the most devoted and faithful." Mavren was practically glowering at him.
"Only a few decades removed and already the memory was dashed," he said, shaking his head. "Then again, we had done the same to the words and memory of our Blessed Saint, so I suppose I shall not be surprised."
Now the smile began to die. "What are you-"
"I was among the first to take the Rite of Redemption. This is known. What you seem to have forgotten is what happened to those who were my peers," Mavren answered, his shoulders squaring. "I shall correct this. And I wish for all who are present to hear me, and listen well."
The pontifex looked around the gathered assembly. Cardinals and bishops alike were focused on him. A few were quietly muttering amongst themselves, and he cleared his throat to get their attention. Briefly, he caught the eyes of both Lazaro and Cecurro, and there was something that flashed in there -- apology, grief, forgiveness -- before he looked back to Theodors.
"We did not fully understand what would happen if one drank from another vampire," Mavren said. "We were much like you, Cardinal. We were driven by curiosity and a desire to understand the limitations of the Rite, but we did also wish to see if there was a chance we could improve upon it. Would it make us more zealous if we introduced it? More steadfast? Stronger? Would it make our wounds heal faster? So many questions we had." His face became grim. "And soon after, we began seeing our answers."
The cardinal was staring at the pontifex a bit more intently now. Evidently, he did not know of this. It was expected. Mavren knew these experiments were, just like Tarrian's own trial and writings, locked away.
"Those who drank the blood of their fellows began to feel their hunger grow and grow and grow. Each time they drank, they became just a little hungrier, a little more bestial in nature. Until there was little other choice but to either inter them or kill and destroy them outright," Mavren explained. Melancholy tinged his words as much as he wished to keep them more matter-of-fact. "I persist only because I resisted the urge to submit myself to such experimentation. And due to the fact that I knew someone had to help ensure that no one would attempt it again. I was not the only one; we created a small order amongst ourselves dedicated to the preservation of the clergy, though none of them remain alive today."
A pause for the words to sink in. All was silent now.
"Once we began to see the effects it had upon us, we immediately codified it into being one of the highest heresies among the church. Any who were found willingly drinking the blood of our own were to be harshly punished, if not killed. It is an addictive thing, as it did confer some measure of greater power and vitality for a time. So we knew we had to do all we could to stamp it out. And so we have done so, and so I will continue to do so even now," Mavren proclaimed. He looked into the crowd. "However, you have caused for this to become a more unprecedented case. In the times before, all who drank the blood of their fellow vampires did so knowingly, willingly, out of a want to do so rather than a need. You have created a new case entirely which I have spent these past few nights contemplating alongside some of the other cardinals."
Theodors still did not look backwards. Eyes were once again flickering over to Lazaro and Cecurro. Lazaro was rigid, his eyes wide in both shock and horror. Llorente gently squeezed his son's shoulder. Lazaro could feel a measure of ephemeral anger nearby.
"According to what your grandsons have told to me, aside from the incident for which he has already been penitent for, they have remained in control of their instincts and hungers. They have been feeding from the blood of mortals, be they human or otherwise, and have been following all of the usual observances as set by the Church of Dusk. However," Mavren said, his word taking a bit of an edge to it, "I have also decided that it would be in my best interest as well as that of the clergy for me to personally keep a close watch on them, regardless. You have instilled this hunger and restlessness in them. We know what happens when one of us has nothing to subsist upon but animals instead of proper human blood, and I wish to see if such effects may befall these two if they do not feed on our vitae."
Lazaro felt his heart thump in his chest. Theodors maintained the gaze of the pontifex, hardly moving.
"Whether this destructive fate awaits them will also be yet to be seen," Mavren continued. "In many cases, they would be granted the Saint's mercy. Since neither of them consented to this, and both have demonstrated that they are, indeed, capable of acting as clergy in spite of what has been wrought upon them, I believe that cautionary observance can be extended to them for now. I have already spoke with them individually, and I will seek further audiences in future." He turned his attention to where they were among the clergy, inclining his head to them. His gaze then once more swept to the bishops and cardinals.
"If any seek to read their testimonies and confessions for themselves, they may do so afterwards." Mavren's wing swept out to encompass the table next to him. "I did not make this decision lightly or delicately, and nor will this next decision be so."
Theodors swallowed thickly. Now came the thing everyone was waiting for. Lazaro's heart once again hammered in his chest, and he pressed a hand to it, wincing in pain. Llorente leaned in to make sure he was alright, and Lazaro nodded tensely. Both were too distracted to notice that someone was slipping out and away from the trial.
"Theodors Peralta Ayere," Mavren spoke, his voice ringing clearly all around the cathedral. "For being unrepentant in your crimes against the doctrines of the Church of Dusk, for dragging innocent lives into the darkness of heresy, I hereby condemn you as a heretic. The living victims of your crimes have both requested you not to be put to Sanguis Extremis, and I shall listen to and acquiesce this. Instead, you are being forced into retirement. You are to be stripped of all clerical titles and duties, and you shall be under effective house arrest until I and the other cardinals have drawn up a means for reeducation and a path of potential penance. You are to turn in any and all artifacts and possessions belonging to the Church of Dusk. So it shall be written, so it shall be done."
A heavy silence hung in the air after the pronouncement. The pen stopped writing. Theodors was stunned. He knew it would mean penance, but removal?
"Your grace," he said, his voice sounding shakier now. "Your grace, I have given everything to the Church, you can't- I-"
"I can and will. For your own good, Theodors," Mavren said, his eyes and expression softening. "You are tired. You have, indeed, served the church faithfully for centuries. You have more than earned your rest."
"Rest?" he asked, sounding distressed and outraged. "I- I do not need rest! I have been... I..." He kept floundering, his jaw working as he fumbled over his words. Mavren stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Rest, Theodors. I will see you at dawn, after I have conferred with the other cardinals," he said. Theodors' eyes were practically aflame, but Mavren had imbued some measure of his newly invested presence in his words. Theodors could not refuse.
"As you will, Pontifex Fein," he said, his voice hollow. "As you will."
"This condemnation is adjourned," Mavren said, raising his voice. "Cardinals, please remain for further discussion over the fate of sir Ayere."
---
In all the history of Torrezon, only two souls had been condemned to high heresy while holding one of the highest positions within its clergy.
Time would tell if both would be the start of great schisms years after they occurred. Mavren hoped not, and had decided to not hide the second as much as the first.
From the way his soul had been broken, and the way he had looked infinitely and pitifully hurt, he did not think the man who walked from the cathedral would lead such a movement.
Then again, only time would tell.
Mavren could only pray that he had made the right decision.
The sharpest blade could not properly cut the tension between the two ancient vampires.
One returned, transfigured by his travels, the other who had remained, transfigured by his tenacity and will in the opposite's absence.
"You understand why you are here," said the first. It was a statement, not a question.
"I can hazard a guess, holiness," said the other. A bow of the head, his silver eyes flashing. "The measures that were taken in your absence, I presume?"
"Among a few other items," said the first, gesturing to a small stack of materials upon the desk he was sat at. "Let us begin there. Explain to me why I am returning to the Church to find its people practically frothing at the mouth, baying for the blood of anyone deemed slightly deviant enough to be declared heretic?"
The other folded his black-stained fingers. The stains usually receded within an hour or so after he over-exerted himself, but this time, they had not done so. His face had also become a bit more aged. Despite being nearly five decades younger than the man he sat across from, by any human metric, he'd be almost five decades older. His blackened hair was turning a further, frosted grey. The lines in his face had deepened, the outline of his skull becoming slightly more visible beneath the skin. Such was the price of the work of condemners, especially one so prolific and talented as he.
"After you left, we found ourselves at a loss," the condemner began, choosing his words carefully. "A conclave was gathered, naturally. For the first few weeks, we were able to keep things mostly steady, but then too many questions were coming. People began to doubt, and we found more and more of our flocks were coming to us with questions on the Betrayer. More were hearing his whispers and finding them enticing."
There was the quiet scratching of a pen on paper. The condemner looked off to the side where a pen seemed to be writing of its own volition. He narrowed his eyes, looking back to the winged man behind the desk.
"I'm sorry, am I to be condemned?" he asked. "I thought this was a chance for me to explain myself."
"That has yet to be fully decided, Cardinal Theodors," the other said. "Considering the other items I have been informed of, it is more than likely a possibility."
Theodors attempted a disarming smile. "I am afraid I do not know what other items you mean, your grace."
"You know of them. But continue, we will discuss those in time." The pontifex had his hands folded over the desk, resting his chin on them. The cardinal hesitated, looking over to the pen. "And speak truthfully, cardinal. I would rather not have to add this to the pile."
"Of course, your grace," Theodors said with an uneasy smile. He clasped his hands together a little more tightly. The pen paused as he did. He knew it would be recording his every word, so he needed to choose them even more carefully.
He mastered his thoughts and continued.
"The conclave was starting to be at a loss. We were disagreeing on the manner by which we should reassure and bolster the faithful. At the same time, there was a greater number of heretics who were blending in among the people. People were becoming scared, your grace. And, coupled to that, we were losing the war," the cardinal explained, leaning forward a little. "What I did, I did out of necessity. In spite of the Legion's disagreements, I was able to bring the conclave to an accord, and an inquisition was issued."
"You say in spite of the Legion's disagreements, and yet paladins were working alongside your inquisitors," the pontifex said, steepling two fingers. "Explain."
"I allowed the Legionnaires to work alongside us if they so chose, your grace," he said with an easy smile. "All who worked with the inquisitors did so willingly. As did the people of Alta Torrezon."
"They were not coerced?" the pontifex asked with a brow raised. The cardinal shook his head.
"No. The High Marshals would have had me removed from the conclave if that had been so," he said with a small chuckle. "No. You may ask the paladins yourself, of those that survived. We have records of those who joined with the inquisitors, naturally."
"They will be questioned, then." The pontifex rolled his shoulders, adjusting his wings. "So you claim you set about this inquisition in spite of the Legion command saying they wished for their paladins to have no place in it, because the rest of the conclave was too busy fighting amongst themselves to bring order and respite to the people. Am I correct?"
"Mostly, yes."
"Then, please, correct me where I am wrong."
"The fighting was over how to properly respond to the dismal conditions we were finding ourselves in, not out of anything that was out of self-interest," the cardinal answered. "All of us were faithfully devoted to ensuring Alta Torrezon remained strong in light of the constant raiding and slow corruption of our people. The fighting was over the 'how'."
"And your answer of 'how' eventually prevailed?"
"Yes, your grace."
"And it was unanimous?" the pontifex asked, his eyes becoming hard. Theodors hesitated.
"I had the majority required to start an inquisition, holiness," he replied. "There was some dissent. No doubt you have already heard their voices."
"I have not, but I will." The pontifex leaned back in his chair, his wings now brushing the floor, folded over his lap. "I understand your reason for calling it. But now I wish to question you in regards to the..." he pulled out a piece of parchment, and the cardinal tensed when he saw what was written across it. "The edict you declared across the communication network. As far as I have been told, this is far from the only authoritative edict you had been making, expecting even your peers in the conclave to follow on them. I would like to hear an explanation as to why you believed you had been given unique, singular authority in this way."
"Pontifex Fein, I never have commanded my brethren in the conclave," Theodors said with a nervous laugh tinging the words. "Others, sure, but not them. Am I not within my rights to be issuing such decrees? Last I knew, all of us had such authority, I just so happened to be the only one exercising it."
"Such edicts that are so broad and sweeping as to encompass the entirety of the lower clergy alone require special permission, cardinal," the pontifex said, leaning forward. "And that is only if your decree only encompasses them. You were overreaching by also implying that all elements of the nation would be punished by the Church. And again, this is not the only one of these decrees that I know of." He produces two other notices, signed and stamped. "So I will ask you again, Cardinal Theodors. Where do you believe you got this level of authority from? You are the only signatory, so I cannot see the rest of the conclave signing off on this, nor do you appear to have been granted permission by the Blessed Saint."
Theodors looked at the notices. Both were tied into the inquisition as guidelines and standards for heretical practices, though he had authored them and thought there would be little issue since he was a sitting cardinal and a condemner at that. His brows are drawn together as he looks back at the pontifex.
"These are heresy ordinances," he says. "Am I incorrect in believing I had authorization to issue them?"
"The issue is that you are overreaching your authority here. Had these been guidances for just the Order of Condemnation, there would be no issue. Had they only been informative so others could potentially report suspected violations of church practices, then we would have no contention. The issue comes with your implication therein that this is an issuance to the entirety of the clergy." He taps one of the notices. "You are trying to make definitions of what is and is not against doctrine on your own. That is the issue, cardinal. If this had been between you and your peers in the order of which you are a part, and if this had stayed there, then we would not be talking about these."
The cardinal was beginning to look a little nervous. He nodded and raised a hand, palm up, a gesture of asking for forgiveness. Mavren looked at it, then looked to him. The cardinal gave a small smile before he spoke.
"I fully understand that this is an authoritative overreach, your grace," he said carefully. "However, know that I was fully acting with the knowledge that there was an ongoing inquisition, and that I had been conferring with the higher-ranked condemners before I made such proclamations. I can retrieve the records of that if you wish."
"Such records can be produced later," the pontifex said dismissively. "You seemed to have had a misguided notion that you had far more power and sway than you did, and I am seeking to correct this."
"And I can assure you, holiness, I have no intention of keeping such influence now that you have returned," the cardinal said quickly, his smile growing. Mavren disliked how it made him feel, how close it felt to another.
"I suppose time shall tell the truth of your sentiments," he said. The cardinal put his hand to his chest.
"I swear on my own blood that I in no way seek to usurp your authority. I have given my life for the Church of Dusk, and all I have done has been done to save it," he said, bowing his head.
"Since you wish to bring up your blood, that is the final and most poignant thing we ought to be speaking of, cardinal." The pontifex's eyes became hard. Theodors froze, his eyes widening a little.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"You've been tampering with the Rite of Redemption," Mavren said. Theodors immediately stiffened, his jaw working.
"Your grace-"
"I am going to await proper testimony from those affected, but know that I am aware of what you have done," the pontifex went on. "Consider this your formal issuance for condemnation."
The cardinal's eyes were wide, and he was as still as a statue as his mind raced.
"How... how did you...?" he stammered, all eloquence gone.
"That will not be revealed to you. Just know that this will be kept as a trial for the higher clergy. I am invoking the Lex Ultimae Condemnationis, so there will be an audience of the high clergy to your trial, and I will be acting as the condemner. Your hearing shall be set one week from today."
That caused a deep, sinking feeling to form in the pit of the cardinal's stomach. His mind began to whirr, trying to think how he could've found out about any of this. Was his training sessions with his grandson the reason for it? Did someone see?
How could this have happened?
He swallowed thickly and nodded. "One week, your grace. I will be ready," he said. His voice was robbed of its prior power or authority. "Am I dismissed?"
"Yes. You will keep all titles and be able to act as you had been before my journeying into Theros. We have suffered too many losses for me to remove one of our foremost cardinals and condemners," the pontifex said. The cardinal stood from where he had been seated, giving a bow, before he walked from the room. The pen stilled.
The pontifex retrieved the communication device he had been given by Captain Storm upon his arrival home. He sent out two messages, one for Lazaro and one for his brother, Cecurro.
I would like to speak with you privately at your earliest convenience. There is information I would like to have regarding your grandfather.
He sent them off, then slowly stood and stretched, minding his wings so he didn't knock things from the shelves.
Theodors was standing in the middle of what could only be defined as utter carnage. Shouted litanies and prayers of utter hatred and contempt for the heretic, ones that had been spoken so often across his span that it felt second nature to call upon them. Demons were torn asunder, their bodies rent and drained before they could come close to touching him. He had left the walls to the High Marshals and the Legion, now prowling the streets and ensuring the churches were properly defended.
Macario drew upon the blood and vanishing lifeforce of the dying and damned, using it to empower his fellow cardinal as well as himself and the small shifting entourage of Legionnaires, clergy, and whatever human combatants were still straggling in the streets. They were a deadly duo when they worked in concert, and many of the weaker demons had begun to flee from the mere sight of them.
---
The walls were quickly becoming covered and slicked in black ichor and beginning to grow harder to traverse thanks to the countless bodies now piling up alongside them. The clean-up effort alone would take weeks if not months, not aided by the fact that it was the dead of winter.
At least it was the solstice, High Marshal Vazante reasoned. She battered aside a demon coming after her with a morningstar, letting some of the pikemen with her take care of the rest.
Sarria was close, the bigger and heavier man using a ponderous warhammer to smash aside the demons as they got close. He was tiring, though. All of them were.
Glorifiers and priests moved throughout, the blood spilled helping to ease the ache. But a sinking thought was settling into the minds of most of the defenders; where was Pontifex Fein? And where is the salvation that he is promised to bring?
---
Far to the south, a more vicious battle was about to be fought.
Thus far, Austello had been able to hold well. High Marshal Salinas worked with High Marshal Costana in order to ensure the city would act as a clenched fist. There was little friction seen between all of the city's defenders, lending to a beautiful undivided front.
But something was wrong. The fighting was not nearly as fierce as it should be.
And High Marshal Salinas finally saw the reason why.
A woman had landed on the walls. Warning cries went up and were silenced as swiftly as they came. She wore the same armor she had when Salinas had first met her on the killing fields, only now she had a halo about her, and reflexes and strength far above most of the other Legionnaires.
"Vona," she said, gripping her blade tighter.
"Andreas," Vona greeted, shoving a Legionnaire away. Soldiers began to give the two a wide berth, clambering out of the way. The High Marshal pointed her weapon at the other's chest.
"You've gotten uglier since Magan," Salinas said with a sneer. "You allowed that bat to corrupt you?"
"An alliance of necessity. I'm not a zealot," Vona said with a laugh. "Come on, you know me better than that, Andreas. But I do like the new shiny armor, the new decoration suits you! A shame I'll have to ruin it."
"The only shame is that you turned your back on Torrezon."
"It turned its back on me the moment our 'Saint' spat on all that we had built for her!"
"There is a lesson that she brought. If only you were a better student."
Vona narrowed her eyes. Salinas widened her stance.
"If only you were a better fighter."
With a crash of thunder, the two warriors joined.
---
The night was dark, and yet the darkness that came beneath eight wings was darker still.
The god had been biding his time, feeding well upon the fear and insanity that had been stoked over the slow months of progress. But now the time had finally come for all of this to end.
On great wings he flew to the righteous heart of these foreign lands. His true children would find themselves bolstered and renewed in his presence, while his enemies would find hunger and madness clutching at them, desperate to bring them into an endless abyss.
He settled on a mountainside just beyond the walls of the city, spreading his wings wide and letting out a triumphant screech that was echoed by all of his children. Those bearing his gifts recoiled, and he felt them all fighting against the influence of their patron. They would be rightfully disciplined in time. Starting with the most errant upstart among his children.
She stood, a lone pillar of hateful light, able to withstand his calling thanks to some greater divine investiture. The power was ancient and old, but he didn't care. Let her be a defiant little brat for a while longer. She, too, would break before the night was over.
But the god knew this night never would truly end.
But... he felt more defiance. Greater defiance. A soul whom he had been carefully stoking the madness of, moreso since his arrival to the continent. One who didn't even realize what was happening, who thought himself so pure and righteous.
All of the blood he had shed, all of the torture and pain he had wrought in the name of an 'inquisition', all of it had only been for one end; for him to feed and grow powerful.
As his reddened gaze fell upon the city, he saw that errant child among the streets, obliterating his children. They would return in short order, especially now that he was here. He could weave them from the suffocating fabric of night on a whim, and that is precisely what he did.
He saw the form of Vito fighting one of the planeswalkers present, but he turned his attentions to another, greater, and more reasonable prize upon the walls. Vito was still as weak as he had been in the Core. It was only thanks to his mewling and begging that he was allowed to become his herald, and now he would be silent.
But that little cardinal... oh, yes, he was going to ensure this lesson was learned, and learned well. He folded in his wings, his eye sweeping through the streets until --
Ah. There was the little condemner, doing his best to trap and bind his children and save who he could.
That 'gift' of his grandfather's would come in handy indeed. All he needed was a gentle push, and he'd be consumed utterly.
The god smiled. Victory was in his grasp.
You are a spark that will fade, Elenda, and I, am the infinite.
He was staggering through the streets like a drunkard, using the walls of the cramped buildings nearby to help keep him upright. Saint and Venerables, everything hurt. He felt as though his insides were being clawed out of him.
And perhaps they were.
He suppressed a deep growl, shaking his head and trying to focus. He needed to focus. Ignore this hunger, it was manufactured, he could suppress it if he could just--
A smell hit his nose. He blinked his eyes open a bit wider, and he saw it; the body of a paladin, most of the armor torn away, dead. Blood was still pooling beneath them. Recent. Freshly killed.
He could see what did it, and watched as they pointedly ignored him, winging off toward some other target. He snarled, shaking his head, screwing his eyes shut.
It will ease your pains, child.
The priest snarled again. "I am not giving in. You will not break me. You failed before, and you will fail now."
We both know I am already winning.
With a growled yell, the priest turned from the body and forced himself to run -- where?
Anywhere. Just... away. Away from that, away from temptation, away from it. He didn't see where he was going or what he was doing until he heard someone.
"Lazaro?"
The priest stiffened. Straightened. Looked to his right.
His grandfather was standing there, surrounded by a thick, billowing darkness. It crawled up his arms and he could see traceries of blackened veins marching up his neck. He had hardly seen him this involved with his craft. Paladins and soldiers alike clashed with demons nearby, and the cardinal raised a hand and snapped his strange eyes up to destroy one, draining it into nothing more than a husk as it got close.
Lazaro watched him, taking a step backward. Theodors looked back over at him and must've seen something in his eyes. He held out his hands, palms out, and approached slowly, as though the priest were a feral animal.
"Easy, boy, easy," the cardinal said, his voice soft. "You're safe. Let me help you."
Lazaro's eyes were wide as his grandfather approached. The elder reached out and placed a hand on one shoulder. Lazaro stared at him, lip twitching.
He was barely conscious of what happened next.
All he knew was that he was being forced down onto the snow-covered streets, snarling and fighting against unseen restraints, feeling his strength being torn from him and his grandfather shouting,
"Don't you dare touch him! That is my grandson! He is being put under the sway of the great bastard over the city!" Theodors was standing over him, one fist closed with black mist flowing from it, the other held out flat toward advancing paladins.
"He tried to attack you!" one was saying.
"He is unwell! I will handle him. Go aid Macario!" the cardinal barked. "Go!"
The paladins wavered before they saluted and did as they were told. Theodors turned and crouched, resting a hand on Lazaro's shoulder. His gaze snapped over to his grandfather, who didn't flinch away.
"Peace, boy," he said, hushing him. A growl escaped the priest and the grip became a bit rough. "Stop that. You are not a beast. You are my grandson." Lazaro swallowed thickly. His instincts screamed at him to kill the cardinal, for revenge for turning him into this, but he shook his head, taking in a shuddering breath.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"Peace, Lazaro, peace. You were not of sound mind," Theodors said gently. Lazaro could feel some of his grandfather's power winding through him, seeking to shut out and hold down his more bestial nature. "Come. You'll stay with me for the rest of the night. I'll help keep an eye on you."
The cardinal stood, and the cleric stood with him, shaking slightly but trying to focus. A demon cackled at them from a nearby rooftop, and his grandfather dispatched it without even turning around.
"We'll get you fed," he said, leaning in close. "There's plenty of heretics around."
"Grandfather, I... I can't," the priest said, his voice sounding hollow. He felt that deep pit in his stomach open and snap its jaws at him. "I don't... I don't trust myself to stop."
His grandfather's face turned grim, and he set his jaw. He could see the truth there. "Very well. But if the instinct becomes overwhelming, I will be here. Do as you must, Lazaro. I'll catch you so you do not fall." The two felt a rumbling beneath their feet, and heard the sound of stone grinding against itself.
"Cecurro," Lazaro said quietly. "He might be in trouble."
"We'll find him," Theodors said with a nod. "Let's go."
The cardinal called for paladins to form up around him, as well as for a glorifier to aid as he started to stalk through the streets again. Lazaro stayed close, holding the demons for his grandfather to extinguish, and providing healing to the wounded as they past. That endless pit kept opening wider and wider, but his grandfather's influence was making sure it was kept at bay.
He could only pray that it'd last. But with the infernal whispering in his ears and the tugging in his soul, he had reason to believe it wouldn't. Not before salvation came.
