Prologue
“One cannot rekindle what has been lost to change, for the ashes serve no purpose for the flame.”
Christine’s dull, half-closed eyes laid down its sight at the pale mask in her palms, focused at the drying blood stains in the crevises of the engraved patterns, swirling from the cheeks and to the outer points of the eyes, as if holding them back from falling.
“Pass me the water.” – her voice echoing through the densely dusted room, bouncing off the pillars and deep into the dark hallways.
“This isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last.” – her partner swiftly tossed the calfskin vial, visibly more annoyed than upset.
“And what of it? There will never be the end of the Seekers, but neither there will be an end to the Inquisitors.”
She turned the vial upside down and procured a few droplets of the water on her index and middle fingers, wiping some of the blood from the cheeks, and slid her fingers down from the middle of the eyes, forming a trail of tears, and returned it to the proudly standing altar, embellished with a withered golden stripes, half-melted candles and piles of old long-forgotten tomes, with its last acolyte joined the playful swirling of the dust in the air, trying to block the rays of sun seeping through the stained glass, decorated with now-weathered dark silver, the only place where moss does not dare to join.
The duo stepped down from the altar, closing their robes and fastening the belts around their bodies so the metal plates are back to their former places, kindly wrapping around their masters in safety, and pulled the capes of their marble-white robes back on the head. The gleam from the insignia ran across the walls of the room, obediently following the strict march of the wearers as they disappeared in the hallways along with creaking of the door.
“If not for the Codex, I would raze this place down to the ruins.” – her partner’s frown was hidden behind the cape on the face, but not behind her voice.
“There is no need. The world is ravaged by enough anger as it is, demons and monsters alike, shambling around and wearing the faces of those we love. Giving into it would make you a great priest, which you are anything but.” – Christine smirked, scraping the cold stone of the wall with nails, bouncing off of the hardened paint and cracks.
“Why would it bother you, of all people? You can’t love.”
“Keep this up and you will also know how much I can hate, Nicole.” – despite the mean wording, the gentleness in the voice fade not for a second.
Exiting the main hall, they stopped the march, threw back the capes and leaned against the wall, long-awaited fresh breeze filling their lungs in a synchronized deep sigh. Their friendly banter was exchanged with a chatter of the birds, coming from all sides of the Martyr Woods, its rich and densely packed roots are stretching across the south of the Vias continent, battling the ravaged lands on the west and flowing under the Shrouded Mountain range to the east, protecting the Martyr city based on the coast to the south.
Nicole took the bag off of her shoulders, dropping it in the middle of the gazebo, its shattering marbly columns dispersing the setting sun. She lifted the rotting bench with ease, twirled with it in her stretched hands and threw it out on the trail at the slope beneath. The second bench obediently followed the first, disintegrating into a bunch of splinters across the bushes.
Finishing her little act of vandalism, she tied her black hair behind, took out a piece of a chipped chalk, a wooden stake, and a small bag, filled with something partially hard and partially soft, and stepped back with a stretched out hand in an inviting gesture, exchanged places with Christine as she steps in.
With chalk in Christine’s hand, she leaned down and drew an insignia, not unlike the one on the draped cape, swiftly and confidently, placing it inside the circle carved into the gazebo’s floor. Stabbing the bag with a stake, the base of it went right in the middle of the insignia, and clasped her hands.
“Through night and dawn you heed my words,
it falls on me to bless your Lords.
Accept my sorrow, accept my pain,
let it not to be in vain.”
A flame appeared in-between her clasped hands, which she carefully glided down to the stake, setting it aflame, and quickly disappeared from the gazebo, grazing the columns with a robe. Nicole grabbed the bag, leaving a last glance at the stake as barrier started to form around the church, and followed the Christine’s way out.