"THE RADIANT ONE SEES ALL — CONFESS TODAY AND BE SPARED IN THE SECOND JUDGEMENT!" the man cried, voice hoarse from use.
Carriages rattled by in a belligerent manner, iron wheels shrieking against stone, their drivers shouting, indifferent. No one listened. The world moved on, ignoring him.
He stood barefoot on the corner, wrapped in an oversized coat several decades too old. Beneath his hood, his eyes were red-rimmed, not from weeping — from heat. He pressed the palms of his hands into his sockets and screamed:
"He is the fire which casts out the shadows! Know—he who walks within the fire shall bear no shadow!"
His voice cracked like something ancient.
"The Emperor will come and judge us!" he shouted again, this time more desperately. The crowd thinned, uneasy.
Then slowly, he lowered his hands — and for a moment, I swore he was looking straight at me, as if through his fingers.
"You're going to the church," he whispered.
I froze. He stepped forward.
I squinted, unsure, instincts flickering — but he didn't strike. Instead, he pressed a thin sheet of paper into my hand. Then, without a word, he pulled a crumpled 5-vail note from his coat and pushed it into my other palm.
He just stared.
The flyer read:
SCRIBES NEEDED FOR REQUIEM TRANSCRIPTION
Low pay. High sanctity. Must not be prone to hallucinations.
"The Emperor is no man to be revered, he is after all just a man. He bleeds and eats like us. Walk the same ground as us. So why worship a man who dares not to come down from that pedestal he stands on. For the people who love him?" I questioned
"What man could topple an entire nation?"
"With what authority?"
"With his own." He shot back
It was pointless, I sighed. I looked ahead. The fog was thick, not grey but white, it was unmoving but closer to a property of the city. Along with the fog it snowed, the snow was heavy. It was implausible for there to be fog and snow. Yet here I am.
"Which direction is the church?"
"Let the song lead you."
I turned, a group of school children–small girls skipping and singing.
Through smog He watches, / Through fire He breathes. / In silence we serve. / In light we believe.
It was closer to chanting. It was hauntingly resonant with the silence. The only sound emanating from the streets being the sound of carriages and the occasional passing of people.
I stepped forward, my shoe's heel crunching against the snow before I stepped into it.
"My thanks," I muttered flatly, tipping my hat.
I heard a step, it sounded as if it were towards me. I turned and the man was gone. Lost to the fog. No goodbye or explanation. Just the rhythmic thump of leather to snow.
I looked down at the note again. The ink was smudged but in fine print, I thought it was water-damaged. But the ink was still wet—fresh. Smudged, as if someone had just finished writing. The ink was freshly painted and yet the paper was yellow, brittle at the edges as if aged years before it reached its recipient.
I turned the paper over. The ink had soaked through the paper, causing a blot of words. It was one word.
"Ju-piter?" I read
And under it it read, Greed corrupts, Lust consumes, Pride controls, Gluttony craves. A portion of the words were smudged out, then it continued. Fear It that is not of world but of the White ash. Jupiter craves unity.
A loud bell echoed through the fog until it slowly trailed into the distance.
Only the carriages remained rumbling with hollow indifference. The snow had started falling harder now, coating the street in silver. Glistening any light that perforated the fog.
Though the bell had trailed, it had not vanished. It remained, simply muffled.
18:39
My nose was running, it was like water dripping from my nose. I coughed once. A man stood before me, guarding the church.
He held out his hand.
His eyes flicked to the side subtly. A small box nailed to the wall.
I tilted my head in confusion.
"Money to pay the ferryman's fee."
"To enter the church you mean?"
His jaw flexed, gritting in both anger and fear.
My eyebrows narrowed.
"I was joking, Forgive me. I've come regarding the job, brother." I said revealing the paper
He leaned forward, squinting. I looked too — the fine writing was gone. Only the offer remained.
He gave a curt nod, then pointed at my gloves to be removed.
"Strange." I pulled them off slowly, his eyes fixated on them
The man from earlier claimed the Emperor to be a fire, if that were the case it would make sense that our gloves would need to be removed, After all in their eyes, if there is a fire what need we for gloves.
It's a custom. Part of the religion. The religion itself is a puzzle. One most likely connecting to the events surrounding Meridia. To be worshipped as a man does not simply take money or power. It requires authority. To be held upon a pedestal. They murdered God and replaced him with their own image. People are made hollow. Just short of fullness.
The man handed me a candle, sat upon a metal plate. I nodded tilting my hat.
I looked closer at him, his eyes were pale, almost milked over — not blind, but burned. He had black bags under his eyes.
It needn't be said. We were being watched
He pushed open a double door. It wasn't a church but a cathedral. A castle painted under the guise of religion.
The walls were laced with gold and silver. The air was smoky, dense with myrrh and soot. The windows were tinted and stained with pictures of the emperor's endeavors against his adversaries. In each of them the enemies were depicted as beasts. Demons in the multitude. And in each picture his face was obscured with light, a light which carrying implications of casting out these demons. The Meridians.
There were pews lined row after row, stretching tens of meters, each seat filled. And in the pathway, vertically arranged candles each with stands of gold candlesticks. Some worshippers kneeled at the front. Their knees bruised and their faces covered with cloth.
Next to me a set of books, free to be picked. They read, "Canticles of Ember."
As I entered my orange flame burned blue. I looked forth, at the front of all the rows of pews. A man with blood soaked bandages wrapped around his eyes.
He began to speak.
"We are not flesh, we are fuel."
"All hail The Emperor, All Hail Verdannia, the chosen nation!"
The crowds began to burst into tears, and began singing a hymn. The clock spun anti-clockwise, then clockwise when they stopped.
Next to the Priest was not a bowl of water, but of fine ash.
"The Emperor has seven qualities: Illusion, Fire, Silence, Memory, Death, Flesh and dissonance. These ashes take to claim his Requiem, his mourning for us, the mass for the dead. We are the dead. When we take to claim his requiem only then are we truly followers. He unwrapped the bandages from eyes. And a man came behind him as he kneeled to the floor. That man placed his hand within the grey ash and held it up.
"All hail the Emperor. Let us be of Fire." He murmured, his voice rippling through deathly silent crowd, their tears drying up
He then placed his palm upon the Priest's eyes.
"With this you can see." He spoke
The Priest kneeled stationary, the man pulling his palms from his eyes.
The Priest slowly rose, and as he did tears cascaded from his eyes. It was blood.
"What is this." I murmured, my words stuck in my mouth. Not quite going any further.
I knew it was no miracle. It was something else. I simply didn't know it yet.
I hadn't known true fear intimately. It wasn't familiar. What I feel, I question if it's fear. Or wrongness.
The crowd shuddered in awe.
The Priest opened his eyes.
I stepped back slowly, swallowing, I turned. A cobweb being caught in my face. I spat silk laced my tongue.
Every thought, every instinct in my body cried out for me to—
Run.
"Run, Orin," I muttered to myself.
But my legs didn't move.
The Priest's eyes were wide open now. They glistened red, the whites of his eyes were pink and stained. Not like eyes at all—like glass filled with blood.
And he was looking directly at me.
Not at the crowd.
Not at the altar.
Me.
The flame in my candle flickered once—then turned black.