CHAPTER TWO – The Priest of Ashes
The chapel of Saint Velor had once been a place of light. Now it was nothing but a carcass of faith, its stained-glass windows shattered, its altar blackened by old fire, and the crucifix above it twisted by smoke and rust.
Kneeling before the ruins, Father Malric whispered a prayer that tasted of ash.
"In Thy holy name, cleanse the world of her blood."
His fingers, long and skeletal, traced the cracked symbol of the Black Church across his breastplate. Around him, soldiers in black armor stood motionless, their faces hidden behind iron masks. The air smelled of incense, blood, and decay.
On the stone before the altar lay the relic. The Eye of Veyra, a sphere of obsidian set in a circle of bone. It pulsed faintly, feeding on the drop of blood Malric had given it.
The Eye was said to see all witchcraft born of sin. It whispered to him now, its voice like wind through tombs.
Blood rises in the north. The Covenant stirs again.
Malric's thin lips curved. "So the rumors were true."
He stood, his black robes dragging through the soot, and looked toward the cracked ceiling where sunlight filtered weakly through dust. "A blood-born witch survived the purge… and something walks with her."
One of his lieutenants stepped forward, bowing. "A scout found traces near the ruins of Noctara, Father. Burnt soil, sigil residue, and shadow energy."
"Shadow?" Malric's eyes gleamed.
"Impossible. The Shadow Knights were banished ages ago."
The soldier hesitated. "Then how do you explain this?" He dropped a fragment of black armor on the floor, etched with ancient runes.
Malric knelt, fingertips brushing the metal. The air trembled as the Eye of Veyra brightened, its glow mirrored in his own eyes. He saw flashes, a woman with silver eyes, blood dripping from her palms; a man forged of shadow, his blade weeping light.
The priest's breath caught. "The Witch and the Fallen."
He began to laugh, low, dry, and broken.
"The prophecy… It's beginning again."
The soldiers shifted uneasily, but none dared interrupt.
Malric turned back to the altar. "Do you know what that means, my faithful?"
No answer. Only the faint hum of the relic and the whisper of dust falling from the rafters.
"It means," he said, voice rising, "that the Goddess has chosen her enemy once more. And we, her devoted hands, shall crush it before it blooms."
He drew a dagger from his belt, silver-edged, engraved with holy sigils and sliced his palm open. Blood dripped onto the Eye, sizzling as it touched. The relic flared, showing him a vision: the witch and the knight standing together beneath a burning sky. The blood moon rose behind them like an open wound.
Malric's gaze darkened. "Before that night comes, she must die."
The soldiers knelt, chanting the creed of the Black Church:
"Through pain, we purify. Through death, we deliver."
Malric watched the vision fade, but a trace remained, the mark of the witch, glowing faintly in his mind. He took his dagger again and carved the same sigil into his wrist, gritting his teeth as blood streamed down.
"By this mark," he whispered, "I bind my hunt."
The chapel shuddered. The relic's light poured into him, burning through his veins. For a moment his body convulsed, eyes rolling white, skin turning gray like ash. Then it passed, leaving him stronger, colder.
He stood, wiping the blood on his robes.
"Ready the riders. The Witch of Noctara will not see another moon."
As he turned, the shadows at the edges of the chapel stirred, faint movements that no soldier noticed. They whispered softly, unseen, as though mocking his vow.
But Malric did not hear them.
Outside, thunder rolled over the valley, and the smell of burning iron filled the air. The priest stepped into the storm, his black cloak billowing like the wings of a carrion crow.
Somewhere far away, in the heart of the ruins, Elara felt a sudden chill crawl down her spine. The mark on her wrist flared with pain, as if something, or someone, had called her name through blood and darkness.
Kael's voice echoed in her mind. He's coming.
She clutched her wrist, heart pounding. "Who?"
The one who hunts even shadows.