One by one, the girls departed from the Temple of Light, their footsteps echoing against the marble floors until silence descended like a shroud. Only Cathie and the Head Priestess remained, surrounded by ten displaced souls whose fate hung in the balance.
Cathie sank into the worn wooden pews, the ancient timber creaking beneath her weight. Exhaustion pressed against her temples as she lifted weary eyes to the Head Priestess. "When will the children arrive?" Her voice carried the weight of sleepless nights and troubled conscience.
The Head Priestess stood rigid as carved stone, her hands clasped before her pristine robes. "They should arrive shortly. The Labrador Retriever unit from the military police will escort them."
Heat flared in Cathie's chest. She rose abruptly, her palms pressed flat against the smooth pew back. "They are merely children—frightened, displaced souls—not criminals." Her words rang through the vaulted chamber, sharp with conviction. "They require compassion and sanctuary, not armed escorts breathing down their necks like common felons."
The Head Priestess remained motionless, her lips sealed as marble. She could not voice the bitter truth—that the police escort served not as jailers, but as shields. The Redeemers prowled the shadows, their righteous fury burning like wildfire. This underground resistance, forged from rescued children and bereaved families, had sworn blood oaths to shatter the Sisters of Light and their ancient practices. They struck without warning, liberating any child they could tear from the temple's grasp before darkness claimed them forever. Each member bore scars—some visible, others carved deep into their souls—and their hatred for the sisterhood blazed with the intensity of a thousand suns.
The temple's massive oak doors exploded inward with a thunderous crash that reverberated through the sacred chamber. Sheriff Friedbert Shepherd materialized in the doorway like an avenging titan, his imposing frame casting long shadows across the checkered floor. Behind him, ten small figures huddled together—children whose eyes held too much knowledge of the world's cruelties. Each Labrador Retriever unit flanked them with military precision, their handlers' faces carved from granite.
The ten priestesses arranged themselves in formation, their white robes rustling like autumn leaves. They stood motionless as sentinels, their faces masked in serene indifference that belied the storm brewing within these hallowed walls.
Among the frightened cluster of children, one small boy captured Cathie's attention. His azure eyes—bright as summer sky yet haunted by shadows no child should bear—met hers across the chasm of marble and circumstance. Something twisted in her chest, a knot of protective fury she hadn't expected.
The Head Priestess's voice sliced through the tension like a blade through silk, each word precise and unforgiving. "Sheriff Shepherd, the children stand ready to be entrusted to the care of the Sisters of Light."
Sheriff Friedbert Shepherd moved with surprising grace for such a colossal man, his brown uniform stretched taut across shoulders that could bear the weight of mountains. He positioned himself between Cathie and the Head Priestess, a living barrier between mercy and doctrine. The leather of his holster creaked softly as he shifted, and the metallic scent of his badge mixed with the temple's incense—a collision of two worlds that should never meet.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next word that would seal these children's destinies.
A small girl stepped forward with practiced grace, her midnight-black hair plaited with silver ribbons that caught the temple's candlelight. At six, she carried herself like a miniature duchess, her emerald dress bearing the unmistakable cut of Midvale's finest tailors despite being sized for a child.
"Lady Marina Ashworth," Sheriff Shepherd announced, his voice gentler than expected. "Daughter of Lord Reginald Ashworth of the Northern Estates."
The Head Priestess inclined her head with calculated respect. "Your family's contribution to our sacred work will not be forgotten, child."
Marina's small chin lifted with inherited defiance. "Papa said I was going on an adventure, but Cook cried when she packed my things." Her words carried the precise diction of expensive tutoring, each syllable perfect despite her confusion.
Cathie's heart clenched at the child's bewildered courage. She knelt to Marina's eye level, noting how the little girl's hands clutched her silk skirts for comfort. "You are safe here, Marina. We'll take very good care of you."
Behind Marina, her Labrador unit handler stepped forward, his weathered face unreadable. He pressed a small carved wooden horse into Marina's tiny palm—wordlessly, with the careful precision of military duty—then stepped back and delivered a crisp salute to the Head Priestess before turning on his heel and marching from the temple.
The Head Priestess's eyes swept the line of waiting sisters before settling on one with auburn hair gleaming like burnished copper beneath her white veil. "Sister, this child requires guidance in proper deportment and noble bearing," she said with quiet authority. The chosen priestess bowed her head in silent acknowledgment and gently took Marina's small hand, leading the confused little aristocrat deeper into the temple's shadowed halls.
After that a small boy shuffled forward on unsteady legs, his oversized boots squelching against the marble floor. At six years old, he was all knees and elbows in clothes clearly handed down from older siblings, his mousy brown hair sticking up in rebellious cowlicks. Tears had carved clean tracks through the dirt on his round cheeks.
"Tobias Fletcher," Sheriff Shepherd read from his ledger, his tone carefully gentle. "Son of... former residents of the Lower Districts."
The little boy's face crumpled entirely. "I want my mama!" he wailed, his small voice echoing through the vast chamber. "The bad sickness took her away and now she can't come get me!"
The Head Priestess regarded him with a cool assessment. "The child requires comfort and structure."
"The child requires love," Cathie countered firmly, kneeling in the growing puddle around Toby's boots. She opened her arms, and the sobbing boy immediately threw himself into her embrace. "What did you like to do with your mama, sweetheart?"
"We... we caught fireflies in the summer," he hiccupped against her shoulder. "Mama said they were fairy lights dancing just for me."
The giant of a man who had been Toby's protector crouched down beside his small charge, his gentle eyes belying his intimidating frame. He pulled a smooth river stone from his pocket, polished to gleaming, and pressed it into Toby's trembling hand. "Keep this close, little one," he whispered, his voice thick with unexpected emotion. Then he straightened, drew himself to attention, and delivered the sharpest salute of his career before striding away without looking back.
The Head Priestess observed the weeping child with a calculating assessment. "This one needs comfort and gentle healing," she declared, her gaze finding a kindly priestess whose eyes held grandfatherly warmth. "Sister, tend to his grief—he has known love and must learn to find it again." The selected priestess bowed her head and lifted Toby gently into her arms, carrying him toward whatever healing the temple's quiet chambers might offer.