The rest of the Inquisition army had disbanded, scattering back to their remote outposts. After a fortnight, the green faded not into autumn, but into the gray of a cold hearth. By noon, the winding plains were gone, replaced by the skeletal remains of charcoal trees that rattled like old bones in the wind. Despite the absence of new experiments from the lich, the land of Sahada had been sucked dry. Ianc understood how the lich swayed Suledin’s mind. He understood the desire for change, to climb the ladder, to have power, to finally breathe free air. He understood he was the prime example, the avatar of hope and desperation.
Mirari’s reason for following the lich was clear that she wanted Ianc to have power. She wanted to atone for killing Oscar, for condemning them both to the pyre. He felt a pull, a silent hum in his bones that said she grew closer. Yet with every step toward the city, she felt further away, as if a terrible chasm opened between them. How could an undead create such a shadow even in the brightest city?
He didn’t know how much of her mind she had reclaimed, or how much the lich had warped it. All he knew, all he desperately hoped, was that he could still reach her. His vow to the Aeimortis had been a whisper in the dark, a promise to save the lost. He had to believe it for her sake, for his sake. He glanced at the party members, each and everyone of them, wondering what kept them going. They held on to each their own, much like him, and that’s beautiful.
The final leg of the Disciple Road lay before him with a much slower transition. Solid earth of the plains dissolved into a black yielding muck that swallowed the sound of hoofbeats. The air didn’t just smell of decay; it felt heavy, a humid shroud that clung to Ianc’s lungs. With every breath, the scent of stagnant water coated his tongue. As Chad stepped onto the swampy fringe, a sudden, sharp scent of petrichor brought the unusual promise of death. Turbulent winds whipped distant tornadoes into being. Silent, malevolent lightning flashed endlessly, illuminating the bleak cobbled path. The earth didn’t hum with thunder, but with a wrong silence that prickled the hair on his arms.
He wiped the condensation off his brow, only to find his eyepatch was soaked. His infravision peeked at the twilight sky, merging with his normal sight. Half of these lightning strikes were magic judging by the bruised color of the flashes. Beyond the horizon, something stopped the air, rolling them up in dunes that reached above eyesight. When a rare few of those fell back to earth, they became lightning balls, temporarily lit up the path of the Disciple Road. “This is no place for a Suledin to pass,” Ianc said. “No wonder only a tenth survive.”
“You might,” Rahorh said. “You are resourceful.”
The compliment turned sour beneath the metallic taste of the rain. Resourceful, he sold Mirari for a mere chance of buttslicking a lord. The thought returned with a twist in his stomach, always, and every time. He read Rahorh’s face again and knew he didn’t mean it. He had become unnecessarily sensitive under the influence of this cursed land. Turning his attention back to the stormland ahead, he shook his head. “This cannot be natural weather,” he commented.
“No it’s not,” Rahorh confirmed. “Sixteen Ardrhys and hundreds of rhys control it. Imagine the heat of a sun just miles above your head. We shape the weather to build Lys Royeaux right beneath it. The land around pays the price.”
Classic Sacrosanct, he thought. As they waded in deeper, the sting in the rain became noticeable. The magic in the rain, he realized. It tickled first, then started to puncture in his skin like needles. He called a spell he recently learnt from Abby, a halo of golden shroud materialized around his body. Then came the buzzes, like the air had been condensed around him. This proved why Suledin disciples never came back. Only when sworn loyalty to a Magister house, you could come back as a Sacrosanct. “So this is where the Queen of Thorns died?”
Rahorh nodded. “She died at the cost of Aeigiva. Lys Royeaux was built on the ruins of our cousin.”
“So it was just by luck that she invaded Aeithora first,” Ianc said, “Else we don’t exist but a version of us on the other side of the land.” A heavy silence fell. “And we just destroyed the Aeimortis,” Ianc breathed out, “The last remnant of the old world.”
“What’s done is done,” Cley cut in. “We need to reach the city.”
They continued along the worn, cobbled path. The air went cold, and rain began to fall in hard, heavy drops that punched through Ianc’s halo. He steered Chad closer to Abby, putting himself between her and nature’s onslaught. When the hailstorm finally subsided, he gathered his courage to ask the question that had been on his mind. “Abelle and deMolay. You are not Cley’s blood sister, are you?”
“No,” she answered plainly, not even looking at him.
Ianc knew he was treading on a sensitive subject, but he pushed on. “Tell me more about your family.”
“The deMolays are my family.” She kept looking at the distant lighting balls but he saw her grip tightened.
“Abelle is a major Magister house. Even a woodman has heard about them.” Ianc pushed forward.
Abby fell silent again, her face expressionless, her eyes fixed on the path ahead. “I was sent to damage House deMolay,” she said, the words a sudden whisper. “Her father knew. He spared me. Cley forgave me.”
The weight of her confession settled between them, a silence heavier than the storm. He wanted to pry, to understand the full sacrifice, but held back. The shadow wars between Magister houses were fiercer and dirtier than any battlefield. She had her secrets; he had his. “Seems nothing rains here without the Hierophant’s knowledge,” he said, eyeing the sky.
“Nothing breathes unless he wills it,” Abby whispered back.
The lightning balls flared bright then disappeared as if proving her words.
“Quickly. The passages only open now.” Cley urged her horse into a sprint. The rest followed, Solfire blazed on their hand.
Ianc couldn’t see anything but following the dim shadow in front of him. He only caught sight of black caves, opening up at the feet of the mountain range. The tunnel widened up, enough for two riders to ride side by side.
“Stay in one line.” Cley’s voice echoed in the narrow space.
After a short moment, they entered Lys Royeaux. The bleak sky was replaced by overwhelming light, warm and welcoming like it was waiting to bask him in its embrace. He allowed himself a brief relaxing breath, enjoying the fabrication designed to make every disciple feel special. Endless pastoral life spread before him with rolling hills and squared fields. The scent of grass and wildflowers filled the air with birds chirping above the blue sky.
Things were chopped into portions appropriately. Houses were built in blocks—rows and columns of identical rooms with laundry hung from every window. The dirt roads were deceptively clean, with ditches and drains feeding the fields. On the stepped hills, where vines fruits climbed eagerly on each other for sunlight, huge watermills rolled their gears, allowing cultivation to thrive even in non-ideal conditions.
The Suledin dwellers worked, just worked. Their faces were sun-kissed, their hands were stained with soil. Though weary, they held a quiet contentment, a pride in living close to the Second Sun. Its radiance halo shrouded the tall walls and watch towers that glowed with divine fire. Those stone structures resided far in the mountain, and he counted sixteen towers so tall that they seemed to reach the dangling sun. Each tower was wrapped with a searching chain, unsure if those feed the Second Sun or vice versa.
“Come,” Cley said. “They only get more grandeur when you near them.”
They crossed a chapel, an abby, and a church every once in a while when they crossed the endless fields. No templars nor rhys to be seen, yet everyone tended to their task automatically, monotonously. He wondered if given a chance at Solfire, how many of them would take it like him? For the first time in his life, he felt a deep conflict he couldn’t name. He glanced at Rahorh. The rhys wanted Solfire for everyone and Ianc had become the embodiment, the living proof that the idea worked. With careless handling, he could become a spark of revolt that burned everything built in centuries.
After two hours of trotting, they reached the outer wall. A statue stood at each defensive crest, monstrous in shape, and wasn’t just meant for decoration. They passed the bastion gate without any problem as if the guards had been informed of their arrival. Dirt roads turned into cobbled streets; open spaces replaced by alleys and communal houses; rags morphed into robes; but most of all, the atmosphere. It became noisy, not just with sound, but with desire. Dangled on a mumbling mouth was a wish, and the Second Sun seemed to absorb them all.
Another hour passed with Cley still in the lead, they arrived at the inner wall. It was even taller, and watch towers appeared more often. Each had different banners now, showing which part of the wall was defended by which Magister Houses. Inside, the bailey was as large as the size of Camelford with various mansions and estates. Here, style changed, rough rock became a luministic chiaroscuro of colorful stones. Fresco, monumentals, flags and statues, all were displayed at face value to show the ostentatious lifestyle of the high Sacrosanct.
“What’s this part called?” Ianc asked as they passed a palace without banners.
“The plunder of Lyra Myr. She contributed all of her looting on the Blackened Land after the First Crusade to the Suledins,” Rahorh said. He pointed to the spires barely showing beyond those high walls. “Beyond it lies Desmund Palace, headquarters of the seneschals, where they hold council and receive orders from the Magisterium.”
Ianc nodded, committing it to memory. He wondered if Lyra actually gave her wealth willingly or traded it for a land far from the Church’s grab. Since he stepped foot in this city, the only thing he wanted was to leave. It teemed with templars and rhys patrolling the streets and hosting sermons at every crowded corner. They briefly noticed Ianc’s convoy, yet none stopped them as if their arrival had been expected.
They reached the inner wall at nightfall. It surprised him that the Second Sun dimmed, fabricating day and night cycles. Thousands of sunbeacons flared on every tower. The streets were overwhelming, bursting with people. They prayed and danced in groups, music was played, choirs were sung.
There were a couple of rhys in each group of people; one was harvesting the praying energy, and one was leading the fun. The spectacle nearly brought Ianc to his knees to join them. The sheer force of the prayers urged his own lips to move. Belief was displayed on a scale so vast the eye couldn’t take it in.
Beneath the prayers, he sensed the steam of desire—the Suledins’ most primal reflection. Ianc had to admit, the Church had a perfect system to control it. The pilgrimage was the perfect hope for the Suledins to be content with their long service for the Sacrosanct, the perfect answer to keep their hope from faltering, the perfect goal to steer their ambition to.
He understood now why the Magister Houses despised the Church, and why the Church purged those shone too bright. It was all about resources, and the most precious of them all was the Suledins. Here, they were herded, milked even in their happy time. Out there, Ishchoir flew into the Magister’s purse. Here, the Church controlled even the night. They needed a spark of revolt and none was more direct than Rahorh’s Sanguine Libertas spell.
Ianc carried the key to challenge the Church’s authority. In a split moment, the summoning held a very different meaning to him. It wasn’t about finding the truth and such, it was about pulling him under Church’s influence. It was about controlling him so the Hierophant could remain in the utmost power position forever.
At the city’s heart, the stepped Pyramid of the High Father dominated the skyline. It was not just a building, but the city’s nexus—where the Hierophant spoke and performed the miracles that reaffirmed a million faiths. Ianc could feel the weight of belief thrumming from it, a silent and powerful song. Encircling the structure were skyscraping towers, sixteen of them, each was wrapped in chains that could only be pulled by ship, or hundreds of people. These towers and the pyramid created a dais to support the Second Sun.
As they walked, Clementine and Rahorh flanked Ianc, briefing him in low, urgent tones that blended with the city’s hum.
“The Reverend Mother wears white and gold robes embroidered with our divine past,” Abby whispered sharply. “She controls the flow of Ishchoir, and keeps the population records—the hand holding all threads. She’s a leviathan.”
“The Prune Pontiff, Soren Zuthath, wears a high conical headdress wired to a mask that looks like a weeping face,” Rahorh rasped. “He atones for the zealot’s sins and purges the Church’s sidethorn.”
“Then there’s my father, Aleksander,” Clementine said. “He’s been building an empire in the cold south for years. The winter bear they called him. But even in his slumber, his claws had reached the city’s gate.”
Ianc nodded. “Shadows lurked beneath the great blaze.”
As they neared the Pyramid, a small group of robed figures emerged from a side entrance. The crowd hushed, parting to make way for them. At the center stood the Hierophant himself, Tietra Saintinas. His demeanor was mild, almost fatherly with warm eyes and faint smile. Such strange contrast to the absolution he wielded. His gaze settled on Ianc, curious yet given nothing back behind those sparks. His gaze settled on Ianc, curious yet giving nothing back. “The Herald has arrived,” he said, his voice soft, yet carrying across the square.
Guards took Ianc by the arms, guiding him away from his team. He looked over his shoulder one last time. Abby and Clementine nodded in encouragement, while Rahorh just retreated to the lines of templars. The weight started to settle on Ianc’s shoulders. His fate would be decided amidst a crowd he didn’t know. His feet suddenly became water.
“Keep up, Herald.” The guard on his left pulled him back to pace. “The Mantle judges cowardice harshly.”
The grand hall stood a testament to the Church’s power with a long, sweeping expanse that culminated in a red dais. Above, the magnificent dome focused and filtered the Second Sun’s light, casting a holy glow directly onto the Hierophant’s throne. Flanked by guards, he was led down the aisle. His eyes took in the assembly.
The Reverend Mother, old and bent, stood at the head of the Quaeso Chapel. Behind her lined the mothers and sisters, wearing colors fading from pure white to dirty brown. The Prune Pontiff wasn’t even in the room, but his Inquisitors were. They stood behind the pillars, even behind the guards. They all wore masks, and the vines circles around their headdress tell how high they sat in the rank.
Aleksander deMolay stood on the right lane in his white bear cloak. His great grey beard concealed whatever he was expressing on his face. Ike leGuay stood behind the bear-man, a familiar face in a sea of strangers.
Then Ianc caught sight of a figure in exquisite, gleaming armor. Templar Marshall Gerald Duranthier, there was no mistaking those merciless cheekbones. Then, his gaze fell upon the legendary Confiteor Swordi, its hilt resting on a velvet cushion. He remembered the tales, the wails it made when it wounded people. It cried for their sin, then repent it by burning the sinner to ashes.
Ianc heartbeat calmed down. He wasn’t getting another cold feet moment, he was detaching himself from the pressure by simply stopping thinking about them. His vision narrowed down to the red dais, to the ancient man weathered by centuries of power.
The Hierophant was surprisingly middle-age. His face was pale and crinkled, yet his skin held bastion pink. His eyes, though, gleamed golden with wisdom as if he had seen too much. He raised his hand. The guards stopped, and a hush fell over the hall. “The Mantle reveals your true hearts.”
Invisible forces gripped Ianc’s arms, pulling him to a pedestal. He had to kneel. He must. On both knees. He did so absentmindedly. When his mind registered the invasive force controlling his body, he resisted. But it was too late.
As he raised his head, light leaking from the dome materialized into a shimmering veil. It floated like silk, rippling perfectly. Even from a far, Ianc felt its warmth draping over him while in its ethereal glow. The outside world faded, replaced by the divine thrum emerging under his chest.
He fell into the lightless depth of his inner sanctum. His eight Aegions swirled around the divine Spark in welcoming his avatar’s presence. He sensed it now, an alien yet familiar presence. The gigantic statue of Sol that once dominated the void had vanished when he formed his first Aegion. Now it had returned, twin stars shining brightest above. Your Holiness? he thought, probing while keeping his head down.
The twin stars didn’t answer. They descended like grasping hands toward his avatar. Ianc resisted instinctively, flying backward. His Aegions flared in defiance, forming a wheel of fire before him. The twin stars kept coming, transforming into two firefists. They knocked Ianc’s spell away with a flick of their finger. The force sent a torrent that blew his avatar like a leaf in the wind. His resistance crumbled before absolute power.
Fool, but brave. The Hierophant voice echoed in the void. Will you standstill?
Rage built inside Ianc, but he had no choice but to suppress it. Four Aegions were turned to dust in a flicker of the Hierophant’s will. He had never felt this deep helplessness, not even from the archlich’s tendrils. As he finally got a hold of himself, figuratively, he pleaded, A Sage shall save dignity for its object, your Holiness.
Tietra’s hands reached out and grabbed Ianc’s avatar. How could he compete against this power? Gerald might not be as powerful, but close, for he stood only one step below the Hierophant. He realized how naive he was thinking he could take revenge. He was just a child, a toy in the hands of a god-like being like the Hierophant.
The mantle seeped through him, its magic woven into his very muscle. Finally, it ensnared his chest, where the mark granted him Solfire. He watched his heart being read, his memories, his wants, his needs, his secrets, his guilts, his ambitions—his whole self.
A line of tears streamed down his face. This had to be how Mirari felt when Oscar forced himself on her.
Interesting. Your spark is pure. The Hierophant said in Ianc’s inner sanctum. Yet a memory is missing, like an eclipse.
The probing ceased, retreating fast as if it wasn’t there at all. Outside, the itch on his skin turned to needle pain when the Sage Mantle was lifted. The world rushed back in a dizzying cacophony. He fell to kneeling, shaken and drained. But his self-esteem was hurt way more deeply.
The Hierophant sat back. His mild demeanor turned radiant with solemn authority. “The boy’s heart is pure. His Solfire is divine.” He paused, letting Ianc catch his breath, then looked down with a faint smile. “You are indeed a Herald, my child.” He raised his voice, letting the declaration fill the hall.
The assembly erupted in thunderous applause. The Hierophant gestured for Ianc to stand and be recognized. He lurched up, limping. Hands on knees, he forced a final push. He stood straight defiantly, definitely not letting them see his vulnerability.
“We will celebrate the Herald of the Sacred Light first Labour in Desmund Palace on the morrow night.” The Hierophant raised his scepter, and the Second Sun shone brighter.
Most knelt and prostrated to the sight, except the Aleksander who only bowed.
Ianc also knelt. He had passed the Sage Mantle’s test and was closer to the fire as Clementine said. He shouldn’t let his emotions stand in the way. He had much to earn before he could challenge Gerald.
Writer note: I think I stuff many things in this chapter. Wonder how you feel about it.
I am a strong champion of your writing and I usually read your work in the evening but I missed this last night so I am here. As usual This chapter is a masterclass in scaling stakes, moving from the visceral horror of the stormlands into the suffocating, manufactured perfection of Lys Royeaux where even joy is farmed for energy.
I love the pace of this chapter and how Ianc’s realization shifts from personal survival to systemic revolt as he sees the Suledins being “herded and milked,” making his entry into the Pyramid feel less like an honor and more like a trap snapping shut. I teach literature but I cannot teach talent and ambiance which shows strongly here.
That final violation under the Sage Mantle, where the Hierophant reads him like an open book and spots the “eclipse” in his memory, lands with terrifying intimacy, raising the question: now that the Church has marked him as pure, will Ianc use their own system to burn them down, or will the Mantle rewrite him before he gets the chance?
Great read.