[Valoria Magna.]
[[Civitas Caelora.]]
[[[South-East of Avarnove.]]]
{{POV CHANGE}}
Sunlight, warm and gentle, spilled across the flagstones of the cathedral courtyard. It was a peaceful sound, the air filled with the shrill, joyous laughter of children engaged in a game of tag and the distant, soothing coo of doves nestled under the eaves of the grand structure. Under the watchful, benevolent gaze of a stone archangel, a man, north of forty, observed the scene with a placid expression.
Their name was Oramus.
And what he watched was his domain: A world of scraped knees, innocent games, and quiet reverence.
But this world's calmness was shattered by the most terrible; a sharp, piercing wail that cut through the idyllic atmosphere like a shard of glass.
Oramus's gaze, placid at first, sharpened with practiced focus. His eyes scanned the courtyard, instantly pinpointing the source of the distress. He saw them near the old stone well—two small boys, no older than seven, locked in a bitter dispute. One, his face streaked with tears and grime, pointed an accusing finger at the other. The second boy, slightly larger and more defiant, clutched a crudely carved wooden horse to his chest as if it were a holy relic.
With a sigh that was more habit than exasperation, Oramus moved toward them, his simple brown robes swishing against the ancient stone. He knelt, the fabric pooling around him, and placed a steadying hand on each boy's shoulder. The gesture was both calming and authoritative. The crying one hiccuped, a fresh wave of tears threatening, while the other stared stubbornly at the ground, his fingers still rigidly flexed around the toy.
"Now then," Oramus said, his voice even and calm, a gentle baritone that rarely needed to be raised. "What is all this?"
The tearful boy found his voice first, stumbling over the words in his rush to be heard. "H-He took it! My horsey! I was playing and he just…he j-just took it!"
Oramus turned his thoughtful gaze to the other boy, who hugged the toy tighter. He didn't scold or demand. He simply waited, his silence an invitation to explain. Finally, the boy mumbled, his voice barely a whisper with no direction, "He wasn't playing with it right."
Oramus nodded slowly, a deep understanding in his eyes. He had seen this scene play out a hundred times. A thousand. He gently pried the wooden horse from the boy's grasp and held it in his own large, calloused hands. "This is a fine horse," he said, examining the worn, polished wood. He looked at the thieving child first. "You wanted a turn to play with it, yes?" The boy nodded reluctantly. Oramus then turned to the other. "And it is yours, and he took it without asking, correct?" Another nod, this one accompanied by a fresh sniffle.
Oramus held the toy out, not to its owner, but between them. "A war fought over a horse. I have seen that before. It never ends well." He paused, letting the weight of his quiet words settle on their young minds. "A toy is best when it is shared. Perhaps you two could be nicer to your fellow 'horsey,' and play together?"
After a moment of tense silence, the little thief looked at the other boy and mumbled a quiet, "Sorry." The owner, appeased, wiped his nose on his sleeve and nodded. Oramus handed the horse back to its rightful owner, who, after a moment's hesitation, offered it to his newfound ally. As the two ran off together, their dispute forgotten in the promise of a shared adventure, Oramus rose to his feet. A small, appreciative smile touched his lips as he watched them go.
His eyes scanned the courtyard, the peaceful scene washing over his cracked skin. Just another one of those days, he thought. The work was often tiresome, a tedious cycle of settling petty squabbles and wiping away tears. Yet, he was happy. This quiet duty was a far, far removal from his former life—a life on the front lines, fighting for the very faith this cathedral represented. He remembered the days of persecution, the constant, gnawing fear, the familiar weight of a sword in his hand instead of a child's toy. Those were days of being chased, of hiding in damp cellars and dark forests, of watching friends fall to the blades of heretical Allegiants. Even if this life was mundane, it was a blessing. He was profoundly grateful to be doing this, to be here, rather than being hunted again.
A deep, resonant BONG echoed from the bell tower, the sound rolling across the courtyard and silencing the children's chatter for a brief moment. Another followed, and then another, the tolls counting out the noon hour with a solemn, unhurried grace. It was time. Time for prayer, and for the midday meal that would follow.
Oramus stood straight and clapped his hands once. The sound was not loud, but it was sharp, and it cut through the air with an authority the children understood instinctively. Games stopped mid-motion. Arguments were abandoned. In an instant, the chaotic energy of the courtyard coalesced into a quiet, shuffling order as every child turned to face him, their small forms standing at attention.
He did not raise his voice or issue a stern command. His tone was gentle, but firm. "It is the hour of prayer," he said. "Let us go inside to the common hall."
A wave of movement followed his words as the children hurried toward the heavy oak doors of the cathedral.
"Walk, do not run," Oramus called after them, his voice a steady anchor in their youthful exuberance. "Orderly now, please."
He fell in behind them, his long strides easily keeping pace. As they filed through the doorway, his eyes tracked each one, his lips moving in a silent count. "Leo... Maria... Cassian... Elemere..." He matched a name to every face, a shepherd tending his flock. He paid close attention, a habit from a different life, making sure no one was hiding, that every soul was accounted for and heading inside. The schedule was normative, a predictable rhythm to his days, and he found comfort in it.
But.
Something was… off.
Beneath the scuffing of thirty pairs of small leather shoes on stone, he heard another sound. A thirty-first set of footsteps. They were heavier, more more distant, and falling out of sync with the children's hurried pace. He paused, his count faltering. He looked around the now-empty courtyard. He saw nothing.
Oramus turned back to the stream of children disappearing into the cool darkness of the cathedral. He focused, recounting once more, his eyes sharp. The number was correct. All thirty were present. Yet, he could still hear it—the distinct, phantom tread of an unseen follower. He couldn't see them, but he could hear them. Which would mean… whoever it was did not want to be seen.
And that is never a good thing.
A cold sense of alarm, an old and unwelcome acquaintance, prickled at the back of his neck. The feeling was a ghost from his past, the hyper-awareness of a soldier who knows he is being watched. The last child, a small girl with a missing front tooth, gave him a quick smile before disappearing inside. As the heavy door began to swing shut, Oramus's gaze was drawn upward, across the intricately carved façade, to the West Wing of the cathedral. His eyes stopped on the high, arched window of the upper gallery.
The stained glass was damaged. There were no shards on the flagstones below, no obvious sign of violent entry. But there, in the center of a pane depicting a serene, blue-robed saint, was a hole. It was a dark, jagged void, subtle from this distance, but undeniably large enough for a man to fit through. The peaceful mask Oramus wore slipped away, replaced by a stern, focused resolve. The muscles in his jaw tightened. He made a quick sign of the cross over his chest, a silent prayer whispered on his lips, before turning and heading not toward the children, but to the small, unassuming entrance that led to the West Wing.
The heavy door groaned shut behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden, cavernous silence. He stepped into a long hall, where specks of dust danced in the shafts of light piercing through the high, arched windows. The air was cool and still, carrying the scent of old parchment, cold stone, and beeswax. Down the center of the chamber ran a single, immense table of dark, polished wood, long enough to seat the entire cathedral's clerical council. But for now, it sat empty.
At the far end of the hall, bathed in the now harsh light from the damaged window above, stood a life-sized marble statue of Renovare the Eternal, its stone face serene, its hands outstretched in a gesture of eternal blessing.
Oramus's movements were unhurried, his pace relaxed as if he were merely beginning his afternoon rounds. He walked the length of the hall, his footsteps the only sound, his expression betraying nothing of the alarm thrumming beneath his skin. He reached the dais, ascended the three shallow steps, and knelt before the statue, his head bowed.
His voice, when he spoke, was a clear and resonant tenor that filled the empty hall. "Oh, Renovare, your humble servant comes before you with a grateful heart," he began, the familiar words of the liturgy flowing easily from his lips. "For the blessings of this quiet life, for the laughter of the children you have placed in my care, for this peace which I feared was lost to me, I thank you."
He paused, his eyes closed. "...I am unworthy of the love you have shown me, a sinner saved not by my own merit, but by your boundless grace. You delivered me from the days of persecution, and for that, my faith is eternally yours…"
His tone shifted subtly, a hard edge creeping into the placid cadence. "And now, a new test has been laid before me. A shadow has fallen upon this sacred place, a foe that moves unseen through your hallowed halls. I do not know if this is a trial of my faith or a trespass of the profane." He raised his head, his eyes now open and fixed on the serene marble face of the statue. "I ask for a sign. I ask for the strength and the trust to be your instrument, to silence this threat and protect your children. Grant me the power to defeat the foe that so secretly threatens your church."
He finished, the last word hanging in the air. A moment later, he spoke a soft, clear, "Amen."
And as Oramus pushed himself back to his feet, a low, guttural syllable escaped his lips—a word not of prayer, but of power. Twin tendrils of brilliant gold light erupted from his palms, weaving themselves in an instant into a thick, glowing rope that hummed with contained energy.
"[Vincula]."
He became absolutely still, his body poised, his senses straining.
There.
A single, sharp intake of air near the base of a stone pillar to his left.
With a speed that defied his simple priestly appearance, Oramus threw the golden rope. It flew through the air with a whip-like crack, not at the pillar, but the empty space beside it. The rope struck something unseen, wrapping itself around a human-sized form that instantly became visible, bound in shimmering gold. The ropes hissed like water on hot iron, burning the intruder, but they didn't cry out. Instead, they fought back.
The figure, still just a silhouette in the burning light of the spell, dug their heels in and pulled. The golden bonds went taut, and Oramus was yanked forward, his boots scraping against the stone floor. The intruder was impossibly strong, their struggles dragging him inexorably across the dais. Gritting his teeth with the strain, Oramus knew he couldn't hold on. With a curse, he released his concentration.
The spell shattered. The golden ropes dissolved into a shower of fading sparks, and the force pulling him vanished. The air where the intruder stood warped and shimmered as a figure solidified from the invisibility. With a violent twist of their body, the last remnants of the spell were thrown off. As they stumbled to regain their balance, the hood of a simple, worn shawl slid back, revealing a cascade of untamed, blood-red hair.
Whomever this was, Oramus could tell just from the raw, profane energy radiating from the 'man', what felt like a palpable, tangible thing… this could not be a common thief or desecrator.
They were something far removed.
Something that felt… demonic.
"...Demon of the Red Hair," Oramus's voice was low and cold, the gentle priest replaced entirely by the hardened soldier he once was. "My Holy Bindings burned you. Such a spell only harms those who follow a faith of evil. Your presence is inherently declared as unwelcome here."
The red-haired 'demon' offered no reply. He simply looked at Oramus, and then his swirling eyes, disinterested, began to dart around the hall. He scanned the stone pillars, the high vaulted ceiling, the distant statue of Renovare, as if he were taking a rapid, silent inventory. The blatant disregard was a spark to tinder.
"What are you, mute? Respond, demon!" Oramus's voice cracked like a whip.
As he spoke, the red-haired 'demon' stepped to the massive stone pillar on his left and reached out, laying a single, bandaged hand against its cool surface. A deep, wine-red energy began to bleed from his palm, seeping into the stone like a poison. It was an aura of pure, unsettling decay. A small, shimmering globule of that same crimson energy pulsed once before affixing itself to the pillar.
"Take your profane hand off that holy pillar!" Oramus roared, lurching forward, threatened by even such a subtle action.
The red-haired 'demon' ignored him, his gaze fixed on the pulsating energy. His lips parted, and he spoke a single, quiet word.
"Obliterate."
The pillar did not explode in a shower of stone and fire. It simply… crushed, grounded into dots by its own existence. The marble of it turned to a fine, gray dust that hung in the air for a fraction of a second before vanishing. The immense weight it had supported for centuries was suddenly gone. A spiderweb of cracks shot across the vaulted ceiling overhead. With a groan that shook the very foundations of the cathedral, the roof gave way.
The grinding shriek of stone was deafening as the ceiling began to partially cave in. A thick cloud of choking plaster and granite dust billowed through the hall, obscuring Oramus's vision in a grey, swirling haze. Through the chaos, he saw it—a silhouette, moving with impossible speed, darting across the hall through the falling debris.
The figure was making for another of the support pillars.
Oramus understood it immediately. This demon appeared today with a sole goal: to commit an act of pure destruction. This demon sought to bring the entire holy sanctuary down, to bury it and all that within, under tonnes of stone. A righteous fury, white-hot and absolute, burned away his shock. He would not allow it.
"Demon of the Red Hair!" Oramus bellowed, his voice ringing with righteous fury. "Your EXISTENCE is a tarnish on this very cathedral! For what malicious purpose have you come to destroy this holy home?" He ran forward, the golden rope of light materializing once more in his hands, even as the demon kept their mouth shut. "Has the master you serve severed your tongue in exchange for this hollow power? Answer me!"
As the intruder reached the second pillar, their bandaged hand outstretched and already glowing with that same sickly red energy, Oramus threw his holy weapon. The rope of light flew true, a golden streak through the haze, and snared the demon's outstretched arm just inches from the pillar's surface.
With a roaring might, Oramus yanked.
The intruder was pulled off balance, dragged backward through the air. Oramus pivoted, putting his entire body into the throw, and slammed the demon into a massive, jagged slab of fallen granite. The impact was sickening, a wet crunch of stone and mineral. The granite slab, which had survived the fall from the ceiling, shattered into a thousand pieces under the force.
For a moment, the hall held still.
Then, the demon with the red hair pushed himself up from the rubble, shaking dust and stone fragments from his shoulders as if shrugging off a light rain. He looked at Oramus, and for the first time, his swirling, crimson eyes seemed to focus, locking onto the priest.
They were daunting, terrifying eyes. In all his days as a soldier of the faith, fighting on the front lines against heretics and worse, Oramus had never seen anything so purely demonic. He remembered the unfortunate day he'd met a Templar of Excidios–face-to-face with one of the highest-ranking combatants of his enemy's faith. He remembered the zealot's eyes, as empty and cold as the void. But this was different. This was not the cold emptiness of a fanatic; it was the chaotic, swirling energy of a primal force, long before Oramus came to be. The sheer, devilish pressure radiating from the demon was a tangible thing, a danger that provoked a cold sweat to break out across Oramus's brow.
A comparison akin to… staring[Excidios] right in the face.