‘God, does father scare me… I bolstered up the courage to ask him whether he had begun an investigation into the old woman’s prophecy and the events of the encampment. He said he had, however, he needed more evidence and information. That mine and Trulliad’s witness accounts weren’t enough. So he sent some intelligence members out to where the encampment was. They will soon return, and he will update me as they make progress.’ - Excerpt from Isten Blodyn’s diary, January, 1263.

———

A harsh wind blew through a green field, groping the grass as it travelled past into distant lands. Its vibrant greens recoiled at the wind’s cold fingers, laying low against the earth’s surface to avoid further contact.

The dissonant cry of a crow pierced the grey sky. It resounded from on top of a carved stone monastery. Its shape was extraordinary. A fusion of arcs and pillars that reached to the skies above. On its roof perched a murder of crows. They cawed once more before scattering into a black mist in the sky.

Men and women in black cassocks and gowns walked in between the monastery’s walls reading from books of scripture, noting down their enlightenments with scholarly utensils. They murmured prayers subconsciously. It was a sanctimony of worship.

“The creator, with a sword moulded from the dead of Krieg, severed down upon the dragons of chaos!” A sharp tinkle of a bell resonated.

“And with that single cut, they were once again two halves. Two helices. Having separated them, the dragons of chaos were now dead, and the creator absorbed their qualities into himself. From their bodies, he formed heaven and earth.” The priestess continued her prayer.

Towards the back of the prayer room, two men sat on a wooden pew. Their stature and weight tested the strength of the wood, and it threatened to collapse.

“Can we leave?” The older man, with salt and pepper hair, asked the other, who had black hair. A disinterested expression was plastered on his face.

“Not yet. I have some questions for the ecclesiastics that I want answered by the next battle. They’ve been here for many decades, so they know the terrain like the back of their hands.” The younger man answered.

“Rupert, just force a damned priest to tell you what you want. It is a fool’s errand to wait upon the whims of some devout monks, particularly at war.” Cythraul scolded Rupert.

“No! If I use force, the rest of the ecclesiastics will ignore me and my army. They won’t heal us, nor will they provide food and water when we require it most.” Rupert argued.

“Once again, force them to obey your commands! The Church is subservient to the state. They are required to show their loyalty to the nation! You, House Honnen, is in the midst of defending our nation. They have a duty to serve you.” Cythraul retorted.

“God, you are a ruthless bastard, aren’t you?” Rupert cursed. “There is a proper order to things, and if we want something done, we have to follow it.”

“Those without authority follow proper order. Those with power don’t. That is tradition, and it has been so for the last thirty years. It has not changed since.” Cythraul cupped his hands.

“It is immoral to abuse our power, Cythraul. By treating those below us without proper respect, we are morally deficient.” Rupert retorted with a smug expression. He had come up with this counterargument after yesterday’s bout over moral issues.

“That is an issue for the Church of Cymorth,” Cythraul retaliated. “You should ask the priest about it! Make them weigh this question on their moral scales: is it immoral to use violence to force action against those who are purposefully inactive during a war that threatens national and state security? They should conclude that inactivity is the greater injustice. The true immorality. It is a habit for the weak, and far too many die for it.” He flexed his fingers.

“You are a moral vacuum, Cythraul.” Rupert gave in. He could not compete with Cythraul’s wit without further deliberation. Cythraul relaxed his hands, a hint of a smirk lined his lips. They settled their moral hostilities and continued listening to the priest.

“Finally, upon the earth, he established Orbis, our planet and created life upon it. We, mankind, were the chosen race. He made humans in his image, granting us his power so that we too could face the same trials that he had once triumphed over. Those worthy enough to succeed would ascend to the heavens, while the failures would dissipate into chaos.” The priests proselytised. To mimic her intensity, the prayers of the worshipers grew emphatic.

Cythraul watched the worshipers, their faces as devout as any piece of religious artwork; or religious propaganda as he would label it. Before he could mentally deride them any further, a hollow groan broke their prayers. Cythraul turned towards the direction of the sound in time to see a kaleidoscope of broken glass shatter into the monastery.

He cringed as he heard a cry of shock resound throughout the hall, but it was quickly covered by further stained-glass windows exploding. The glass shards did not fall naturally onto the floor. They hovered patiently in mid-air by an invisible hand, taking aim, before firing outwards in a glassy hailstorm.

“Sound the alarms! We are under attack!” A priest bellowed. Before he could order more commands, blood erupted from his throat from an imperceptible cut caused by a glass shard. Twinkles of cadmium orbs flickered out from the wound, drifting lazily on an invisible path out of the monastery.

“Berserker attack! They are Praeteritum barbarians!” Cythraul roared, alerting the priests of the identity of the attackers. However, the abrupt nature of the attack had left the worshipers no time to defend themselves.

He and Rupert watched men, women, and children fall to the ground, mowed down by shards of stained-glass. They separated immediately, looking to save those who could be helped.

Cythraul ran to the aid of a nearby child that had crumpled to the ground. The girl was pale faced, whimpering in pain. As Cythraul reached to examine her, she spluttered out scarlet blood that stained his sleeve.

‘Damnation.’ He cursed to himself.

The child was peppered with cuts where the glass had gouged itself into her flesh. It buried itself deep. It would be impossible to save her without supernatural means. He withdrew Sabre’s Rigour, holding it horizontally above her, and channelled Malevolent energy.

“Cleanse.” Cythraul called out. The spell weaved its way into the child’s body, pushing the glass out of the wounds. Afterwards, it forced her body to repair the deeper cuts at an accelerated speed, knitting her severed flesh together. But it did not seal the wound shut.

As he did this, further windows were shattered, though he had no time to worry about them. Healing the child was the only thing on his mind.

“I’m sorry child, but this is necessary.” Cythraul whispered to the young girl below him. The glass had been pushed from the wounds; it was time to seal them.

“Cauterise.” He chanted. A brutal healing spell had begun. A branding fire burned above the girl in the positions of each wound, and it descended upon her. The fire was for healing, not for violence, and was incorporeal.

As the flames touched the girl’s skin, she howled a bloody scream. She was cut short by Cythraul, who quickly knocked her unconscious. The brutal wounds were seared shut, but her unconscious body writhed grotesquely. Molten flesh bubbled, reforming itself on the surface of the skin until only scar remained.

Cythraul knew only how to perform battlefield healing, due to his time leading the Blodyn levied army in his youth. He did not know how to perform surgery with Malevolency and was forced into providing harsh medical treatment for the young girl.

As soon as he had finished cauterising the girl’s wounds, he looked up to assess the situation. Most of those who were in attendance lay dead on the ground. Their blood oozed out from their wounds and mixed with those who lay by their side.

He watched as elfin wisps of cadmium energy formed streams from their bodies. They floated through the stone walls, to where the Berserker's lay in wait outside. He looked to the survivors. Most were ascetic monks or priests unarmed and unprepared.

‘Damn the Church of Cymorth! They have caused the deaths of their poor followers with their ludicrous rules.’ Cythraul cursed the Church for their unwillingness to arm themselves.

As he was about to call out to Rupert to organise the survivors, torches were thrown through the shattered windows. They landed, separated from each other in different parts of the monastery’s hall. Some on the marble floor, others on the wooden pews and other flammable materials. However, this wasn’t important.

‘Oh dear.’ Cythraul began to take swift action at this. He moved the girl’s body behind a pillar, and then ran towards the centre of the hall. He forced as much Malevolent energy through Sabre’s Rigour as he could. He needed to cast several spells, and fast.

“Augmentation.” He felt a ripple of strength and newfound control erupt in his body.

“Miasma.” He shot out clouds of purple miasma to suffocate the flames. If he failed, the monastery would go up in bonfire by the Berserker’s pyromancers.

Another set of torches rocketed through the open windows. They landed on the corpses and in the pools of blood. A malodorous smell of burnt flesh emanated from the corpses, the flames charred their remains.

“Rupert, are you going to help me or not?” Cythraul called out.

“I don’t have a Channeler’s weapon on me.” Rupert responded, a hint of despondence in his voice.

“You stupid wretch! Why did you follow the Church’s guidelines?” Cythraul lambasted.

“I do as the Church decrees. They do not allow Channeler’s weapons in the presence of their chosen apostles.” Rupert replied.

“We’re on the frontier, the very heart of conflict on Orbis! The rules are meaningless in the presence of death that unmistakably lurks nearby!” Cythraul lectured, then pointed at the young girl near the pillar. “Fine. Take the girl and hide her. I need you to leave the building and get a Channeler’s weapon.”

“From whom?” Rupert asked.

“Who do you think, moron? A Berserker!” Cythraul lampooned.

The final barrage of torches was thrown into the hall. Flames danced wildly inside, but with so many torches, they created an inferno. Rupert ran to the girl and dragged her deep through the halls of the monastery to a partially developed section. It was meant to undergo construction for the expansion of the building.

He walked inside. It was sparse save some wooden boxes and emptied bags, yet he found a trapdoor. He opened it and dropped down into the room below, carefully hiding the girl behind some bags of grain.

Her fragile frame, that only seemed weaker due to her injuries, was well obscured. It was unlikely that she would be found or touched by the conflict. He left her and exited the monastery in search for a Berserker to kill.

Cythraul kept channelling miasma clouds, but they failed to do any good. The flames only grew, and this was without the pyromancers influencing the torches. It was a lost cause to stay inside.

He turned and left, running the same path as Rupert did, his speed hastened by his spell. As he turned, the pyromancers finally activated a spell of their own.

The raging inferno behind exploded into a molten magma that spewed to the roof of the monastery. Its heat melted the carved stone walls that made up the beautiful building. Its structural integrity waned from the absurd heat as time passed.

A burst of air thundered after him and rippled through his body. He could not slow down; else he’d face the molten hellfire behind him. As he took his next step, he lost his balance.

The ground had fractured beneath him. Seismic cracks shredded the marble floor, destabilising the integrity of the building. The monastery rumbled heavily, its fury and fear making itself known.

‘Bloody hell.’ Cythraul thought.

“Barricade.” He roared a desperate cry. The Praeteritum Berserkers had snookered him this time. Once he survived, he would tear them asunder, he promised himself. The cracks followed the walls and reached the ceiling. It could no longer hold and collapsed.

Chunks of elegantly carved boulders fell from above, the atrium shattered. Monolithic columns that formed its arcs ruptured, crumpling in opposite directions. The charred corpses that had been burnt by the pyromancers were crushed to black pulp beneath tonnes of weight that once formed the extraordinary monastery. A sanctimony of worship and culture devastated by a horde of barbarian warriors.