The prayer chamber of the Templar Citadel had been carved from the bones of a mountain older than any crown worn in the Empire. Black marble, veined in threads of obsidian, rose in soaring pillars that seemed to hold the heavens aloft. Each column bore the likeness of a martyr—Templars frozen in stone mid-supplication, hands clasped around blades, heads bowed in agony or ecstasy as divine fire consumed them. Their eyes, chiseled with uncanny precision, seemed to follow any who walked between them.

  Above, the vaulted ceiling stretched into shadow. There, in shimmering gold leaf and crimson dye, scenes of the First Crusade unfurled in immortal glory: saints cutting through demon hordes, holy banners snapping in infernal winds, and the blazing sigil of Vrorn cast down like a star upon fields of the damned. The painted fire looked so real it seemed to flicker in time with the braziers below.

  Incense hung thick as fog, heavy with myrrh and burnt cedar. It stung the eyes. It tasted faintly metallic on the tongue.

  Sir Tristram of Highford paused at the chamber’s threshold, his gauntleted hand brushing the hilt of his longsword. He had walked this hall a hundred times. He had knelt before the altar and confessed his sins. He had taken communion in the pale light of dawn and sworn oaths that bound his blood to the Faith.

  Yet tonight, the air felt wrong.

  “Do you feel that?” he murmured.

  Beside him, Sir Euogold rolled his broad shoulders beneath the red-trimmed cloak of the Crimson Star. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his jaw, a souvenir from the Siege of Constable. It gave him a perpetual half-smile, though his eyes were sharp as razors.

  “Feel what?” Euogold asked.

  “Cold,” Tristram said. “Like a grave left open.”

  Euogold snorted softly. “You’ve spent too much time reading prophecy scrolls.”

  Behind them, four more templars entered—handpicked veterans, summoned without explanation. Sir Calvorin the Swift. Brother Halbrecht of the North March. Twins Alric and Osgar of the Riverlands, silent and deadly as the currents they were named for.

  The summons had come sealed in the sigil of High Cleric Zentich himself.

  No mission briefing.

  No warning.

  Only: Attend at once.

  Their boots rang across the polished floor.

  And then they saw them.

  Rows upon rows of templars lined the walls. Dozens. Maybe more.

  Veterans. Initiates. Men scarred by war and sanctified in blood. Helmets tucked beneath arms. Blades sheathed—but hands resting upon pommels.

  Sergeant Rhulk stood near the leftmost column. Massive as a fortress gate, his shoulders could have borne a battering ram. His face was unreadable beneath his cropped beard.

  Near the dais stood Sir Marduke Chessire, dark-eyed and solemn, fingers lightly touching the pommel of his blade.

  And towering above them all, bathed in gold and shadow, stood Lord Chronos Chessire.

  His red-crossed plate gleamed like fresh blood beneath candlelight.

  He did not speak.

  High above, beneath the altar’s pulpit, a voice echoed.

  “Come forward, sons of the Faith.”

  High Cleric Zentich.

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  He stood draped in flowing black and violet vestments, gold embroidery catching the firelight. His hands were clasped loosely at his waist, and his face bore a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  Tristram stepped forward first.

  If there was fear in him, he swallowed it.

  The six knelt inside a circle drawn in white chalk—a ring etched with holy script.

  The stone beneath them was freezing.

  “Kneel,” Zentich repeated softly.

  They all obeyed and dropped to their knees.

  Zentich’s voice carried through the chamber like velvet wrapped around steel.

  “Darkness rises in the east. The dead stir in the south. Witch-kings gather power, and demons test our walls. The light flickers. The faithful tremble. But the Faith… endures.”

  A murmur of assent rippled through the gathered templars.

  “You,” Zentich continued, “have been chosen.”

  “For what purpose?” Tristram called up, carefully measured. “High Cleric, we stand ready—but we would know our charge.”

  A pause.

  A faint smile.

  “To ascend.”

  Side doors creaked open.

  Six priests entered—hooded in indigo robes, faces hidden in shadow. Each carried a small obsidian jar.

  Within each jar swirled a blue, luminous liquid.

  Something moved inside.

  Slender.

  Coiled.

  Alive.

  Euogold leaned closer to Tristram. “That is no holy relic.”

  Tristram’s jaw tightened. “No.”

  The priests approached.

  Then—without warning—iron hands clamped down on Tristram’s shoulders.

  “What is this?” he snarled, straining.

  Hrulk’s voice rumbled behind him. “Be still.”

  “You restrain your brothers?” Euogold barked.

  “Accept the blessing,” Hrulk said.

  The first jar was opened.

  A hiss filled the chamber.

  The liquid spilled across Calvorin’s exposed neck. He screamed.

  The creature inside slithered free—eel-like, pale and glistening, its maw ringed in needle teeth. Tiny limbs clawed at flesh.

  It burrowed.

  Calvorin’s scream became something inhuman.

  Flesh bulged.

  Veins blackened.

  Blood sprayed across marble.

  “Stop this!” Tristram roared. “This is heresy!”

  Zentich raised his arms.

  “This is revelation.”

  Another jar poured.

  Another scream.

  Brother Halbrecht convulsed violently, spine arching as the creature forced its way inward. The sound of bone cracking echoed beneath the vaulted ceiling.

  “You swore to protect us!” Euogold shouted at Hrulk. “We bled together at constable!”

  “And we nearly lost,” Hrulk replied quietly. “We were not strong enough.”

  “You think this makes you strong?”

  “I know it does.”

  Euogold slammed his head back, cracking the templar behind him across the nose. Blood spurted. He twisted free, drawing his blade.

  Tristram wrenched his arm loose and rolled aside just as a jar shattered against stone where his neck had been.

  The circle closed.

  Blades rang.

  Steel met steel in furious tempo. Sparks danced in holy firelight.

  “You have betrayed your vows!” Tristram shouted.

  “No,” Hrulk answered, advancing. “We have fulfilled them.”

  Their swords collided.

  Hrulk struck like a siege hammer. Tristram barely deflected the first blow.

  Behind him, Euogold roared as he cut down one priest—the hood falling away to reveal a pale, horned thing with black slitted eyes.

  “Demons,” Euogold spat.

  “Not demons,” Zentich called down. “Messengers.”

  The chamber became slaughter.

  Templars fought templars. Brothers cutting brothers.

  Tristram drove his blade through Osgar’s throat—the twin staring in stunned disbelief as blood poured down his tabard.

  “I am sorry,” Tristram whispered.

  Euogold took a spear through his shoulder and staggered.

  “Run!” Euogold bellowed. “Tristram—go!”

  “I will not leave—”

  “You must!”

  Three templars bore down on Euogold.

  He cut one across the face. Another stabbed him through the thigh.

  Tristram hesitated.

  Then turned.

  He sprinted toward the stained-glass alcove. A priest lunged at him—he rammed his shoulder forward and smashed the creature through colored glass.

  The window exploded outward.

  Cold night air rushed in.

  Tristram leapt.

  Glass shredded his cloak. Thorned hedges broke his fall. He rolled, gasping.

  Above, Hrulk’s voice thundered: “Find him!”

  Tristram ran.

  Through narrow alleys. Across torchlit courtyards. Past statues of saints that now felt like mocking ghosts.

  The Faith was broken.

  Inside the chamber, silence returned.

  Bodies lay twisted around the altar.

  The unwilling were dead.

  Or worse.

  Euogold lay bleeding heavily, barely conscious.

  A priest knelt beside him.

  The final jar tipped.

  The creature slid into the wound at his shoulder.

  Euogold’s eyes snapped open in horror.

  He tried to scream.

  Only a gurgle came.

  High Cleric Zentich watched with serene satisfaction.

  Lord Chronos Chessire stepped forward at last.

  “You should have done this in smaller groups,” Chronos said.

  “There is no time,” Zentich replied.

  Chronos regarded Euogold’s convulsing form.

  “Messy,” he said.

  “Necessary.”

  Sir Marduke Chessire stood at Chronos’ shoulder. “The escapee?”

  “He will be found,” Zentich said calmly. “They always are.”

  Chronos turned toward the doors.

  “Seal the chamber,” he ordered. “Let none enter without my word.”

  The heavy doors shut with a final, echoing boom.

  Behind them, Euogold’s body arched unnaturally.

  His veins burned blue beneath his skin.

  And something ancient, patient, and hungry opened its eyes within him.