❝
"For he who bears the blight within, no hand—but his may cleanse the sin"
THE CARVED entry doors to the receiving room creaked when they opened softly, flooding the room with golden light through the corridor. From there stepped a man of sacred dignity: His Holiness Weiss Heinrey Knox, Supreme Pontiff of the Divine Temple.
Draped around him was a flowing robe of pure white, embroidered with delicate threads of silver and gold, which glimmered subtly with each of his movements. His hems carried symbols of the Divine Lords– crescent moons, stars, and flowering vines- threading their glow, faint under the sunbeams that filtered above through above the stained glass. A sheer blue silk mantle had been clasped around him at his shoulders with brooches that took the form of angel wings.
His long, blizzard-blond hair rests luxuriously on his shoulders, while the rest is wild at the back and loosely bound with a white ribbon falling freely to lower back. There was a peaceful holiness in his demeanor, a whiff of myrrh and white frankincense trailing behind him—breath from heaven.
"I apologize for having to keep you waiting," His Holiness said gently, his voice stemming calm but deep yet graced like a hymn sung at dawn echoing through the air. "I was drafting a scroll for one of my former disciples in Ivalor; it is to be written in divine language and requires some need for quietness... and prayer."
Cordelia rose, hand clasped. "We thank you for receiving us, Your Holiness."
He gave a small, understanding nod before asking, "Tell me, what brings you to the Temple today?"
Cordelia threw a quick glance at Callistopher and met the gaze of the Supreme Pontiff. "It is about my daughter...Charlotte," she started, her voice barely a whisper, "She has been missing for three months. No one has seen her since that time. We searched it about, but nothing was recovered. Not a witness or any clue. We think that only the Temple could be of help now."
A silence punctuated the air before Weiss Heinrey Knox continued with a rather solemn yet sympathetic voice.
"I can understand the load on your heart," said he in a mild whisper. "The pain of not knowing, or waiting endlessly for a word, sign, miracle, must be painful. It must be painful. Three months.... Not a wonder I would say to you, 'None can fear the worst.'" He looked at her with eyes that seemed older than time itself. "But I must tell you-I do not believe that she is gone from this world."
Cordelia's gaze widened slightly. "How can you possibly be sure?"
He answered with a smile as if to say that the wind is as natural an answer as it gets. "For the Divine Lords watch over every aspect of this realm. I as their vessel can still sense the threads between fate and soul."
Charlotte's thread has yet to be severed. And more… His voice dropped. "I too was once a father. I know what it is to fear for a child."
Cordelia stared at him in silent astonishment.
"She offered her first sacred oath in this temple," Weiss continued. "A soul as pure and vibrant as hers—such souls leave reverberations in the Divine Veil. The Temple remembers them. If you still have any part of her sacred vessel… hair, blood, or even tears… I may be able to reach across the Veil to find her."
Without saying a word, Cordelia reached into her satchel for a folded piece of linen cloth. As she opened it carefully, a single strand of dark black hair glimmered faintly in the light—Charlotte's.
Weiss viewed it with solemn reverence, his expression unreadable. "Very well," he said softly. "Come with me—to the High Altar of Divinity."
He moved toward the door and then turned, calling down the hallway, "Call the priests and priestesses. I need their help for a sacred rite."
Therewith, the Supreme Pontiff led mother and son to the innards of the Temple, deep into the recesses, close to where mortal prayers grazed the ears of gods.
The High Altar of Divinity, in the very heart of the Temple, was lined with soft stone, ancient beyond eternity. The walls rose into excluded heights above, heavy with carvings and inscriptions of sacred verse. The air was heavy with silent incense, broken only by the soft footfalls of priests proceeding quietly into the hall. The priests and priestesses, clothed in white and gold, took their places in a circle around the altar, heads bowed, mouths murmuring incantations to the skies.
Cordelia and Callistopher moved slowly, eyes adjusting to the half-dark, reverent glow. The chamber was almost consumed in shadow, except for a pulpy-thick beam of divine light that poured in from a high stained glass window over the altar. Its colored panes washed the floor with a celestial hue, illuminating the massive goblet of the altar's center. High above on sconces were twelve grand candles flickering to life, their flames refusing to budge, as if momentarily holding their breath.
His Holiness Weiss Heinrey Knox walked solemnly. His white robe entered a slight billow with his movement, the embroidered symbols catching the light like sacred runes. Cordelia gave him the folded cloth containing Charlotte's hair, which the Supreme Pontiff took respectfully in both hands. Facing the altar, he slowly placed the threads into the waters of the goblet. The surface trembled, sending forth the faintest glimmer like a pulse spreading outward.
The priests and priestesses raised their arms in unison while chanting softly in the language of the divine. Weiss lowered his head, closing his eyes, arms hovering above the goblet, palms open, as though waiting to cradle the voice of the gods. The room responded—its silence deepened; the very air had grown still.
Then, light.
From the high window, the beam became almost blinding, flooding the altar with ethereal light. Weiss opened his eyes—beams of light, glowing from within, appeared upon seal-shaped imprints upon his iris. Two sigils that resembled the crests of the Divine Lords radiated gold and violet, too sacred to depict, alive with ancient power. The water in the goblet began to rise, curling upwards as if pulled by invisible strings. The mist wafted out of the vessel, curling in the air before condensing into smoke, which then began taking shape into an image.
Blackness.
Shadows twisted and consumed the vision in a whirl of black and gray, thick to the point of seeing nothing beyond it. No faces, no location. Just a choking void.
The brows of the Supreme Pontiff furrowed. "This... is strange," he said, his voice quivering. "The Divine Lords have answered... but this is unlike any vision I ever received."
Cordelia stepped forward, her face pale. "What is it? What does it mean?"
Weiss's voice wavered, heavy with uncertainty. "It either means awful tidings… or a path cloaked with danger. She is being held—someone dangerous. Someone shrouded in darkness."
Callistopher clenched his fists. "Who? Who would dare?"
The Holy Father turned slowly toward them. "It is… someone you met before, Countess," he whispered. "But I cannot tell you who. The name is anathema—overridden by great sin. Their soul is… stained; the ritual cannot pierce such corruption."
The goblet's water grew still. Smoke vanished.
They returned to the receiving room in heavy silence, their steps softly echoing upon the stone corridor as the doors to the High Altar sealed behind them. The dimly lit corridors had lost much of their pristine, solemn dignity and now bore an even chillier aura. Cordelia found herself taking shallow breaths, with gloved fingers fastened tightly together, trembling in response. Callistopher strode beside her, mute, the lines of frustration deepening across his brow. Upon entering again, the chamber that had so gently warmly welcomed them had turned cold.
The tint of the golden glimmers pouring through the high windows had shifted, elongating shadows on the floor and wall, as if the sun too had turned its face away. Cordelia froze at the center of the chamber, her gaze haphazardly searching the room for something—anything—that could alleviate the added pressure in her chest. But nothing. Just silence, now burying them in dust and mourning. The hope with which they had entered began to fade, leaving in its place a multitude of questions, treacherous questions, and a truth that almost suffocated her.
"I am sorry," Supreme Pontiff said in a tone of grief. "I wished to give you more. But the one who took Charlotte… is someone from your life, Countess. I cannot see them clearly. Their soul has been consumed—tainted by the Sovereigns of Death."
Cordelia went stiff at the name. Callistopher narrowed his eyes and muttered under his breath, "The Sovereign..."
"I have heard that name before," he tightened his voice. "My father spoke of it."
Weiss had one serious nod. "The Sovereigns of Death–she who rules Death–is most feared. Once a soul is under her gaze, it starts to decay. Light alone cannot touch it anymore. Not even the Divine Lords can reach beyond his[death] grasp."
He again broke off to say seriously," Only the Sovereigns of Life can cleanse any soul that has been touched by Death."
Cordelia stayed seated in silence; her gaze became distant, as if the silence itself formed a fine veil hanging between them. When her voice finally pulled free, quiet and slow, it came from a billion miles away of deep confusion.
"Of all the faces I've seen around my life — millions, perhaps... I can't remember who that might be. Who would have the gall to hold such hatred– to be able to do such a vile thing to my daughter?" Her hands were clutching tightly onto her lap. "It must be someone incredibly bitter... but I can't see their face... not even a glimpse of it."
The Supreme Pontiff, one hunched in the sacred stillness of the divine presence, showed a sad nod of understanding. "Then I shall try again," he said gently. "I shall try to pierce through the veil which now blinds even the Divine Lords. I shall call upon the Deities of Peace, though God only knows the strain which would impose on my already shaky bridge. If I succeed, a Pontifical Envoy shall come to you with whatever truths they reveal."
Cordelia turned toward him, standing with quiet strength now resting in her eyes. "You have already bestowed very much more than what many would ever offer us. This... this shadow that you've uncovered... it is but a thread. And I mean to follow it–whoever darks the path it leads me into."
Elsewhere, in the Grimoard estate deep within the forested borderlands of Albiana...
Countess Dorothea gracefully perched beside the tall, open window of her study, sipping from a cup of Darjeeling Makaibari, a rare and precious black tea with golden liquor and subtle muscatel aroma. The wildflowers in the garden waved gently, their fragile petals catching the golden rays of the afternoon sun. To an onlooker, it would seem peaceful, even idyllic–the arrest of time for a moment of serenity.
Suddenly, the air had changed.
A gust of wind caressed the lady through the open casement, not too fierce, but biting enough to send chills down Dorothea's spine. The gloved hand paused over the teacup. "The wind's turned," she muttered, her voice low and inscrutable. Rising with calm elegance, she moved forward and closed the window, latched with a soft click.
The sudden wind had played mischief with her table; papers, old notes, and leather-bound books lay upside down in disarray. She bent to restore order when her fingers brushed against something cold hidden beneath the heap. Abruptly she stopped. Slowly, she retrieved a silver locket from the papers. Her blindfolded gaze seemed focused on the weight of memory it bore.
"...Where did this come from?" she wondered, holding it in her palm as though it had risen by magic.
Meanwhile, somewhere unknown ...
A chamber cloaked in shadow held silence, the only light dancing from a single oil lamp set beside a pile of tattered scrolls and ancient tomes. The walls are carved with forgotten runes carved from hands long since banished from time. A man in a robe of profound green, the hem embroidered with fading gold threads, hunched over an ash-wood desk, every stroke of his feathered pen, capturing on crumbling paper, deliberate and haunting.
Yet suddenly stopped.
He never blinked nor moved. The faceless countenance was suspended over the parchment, suspended by a presence, not seen but sufficiently felt. The atmosphere, once still, began to feel heavy. Or rather heavier. Something had shifted.
"This presence..." he whispered hoarsely, dread now creeping into his voice.
"It fears me." A pause. Then the breath bitterly left him as he gazed out into the void beyond the flame.
"...Would it be you, '_____' ?"