It was a sore that had been cut open in the sky. Like vultures that fed on its white skin, clouds creeped through the moon, scraping bits of it as they circled. The scent of smoke and incense, a nose-aching odor, was driven by the wind and hung upon the temple ruins.
Elias was crunching on the broken altar with his boots on the pieces of marbles and glass. Each breath was heaving at his chest, and each one was stinging with the smoke and dust that still lingered in the air. He could taste blood at the back of his tongue--coppery, bitter, but whether it was his own or not he did not know.
Bodies were scattered around on the floor. Men he had prayed beside. Sworn brothers that he defended. And their white robes were stained with crimson, and their eyes looked blankly up at the heavens which they had so earnestly hoped would come down in their aid. There was a silence that was like the crushing of weight. It was broken only by the crackle of flaming torches, and the dropping of rocks.
Elias wanted to kneel. To close their eyes. To offer a prayer. But he couldn't move. His hands shook beside his sides, his heart did not beat in time with his own.
The mark burned.
It made a brand upon his breast, slightly above his heart, in the form of a coiled serpent with ragged wings. The skin remained pale with a glow in it like there were embers under the skin. He was able to feel it beating, living, every beat running along his veins like fire in his blood.
And occasionally--worse than the pain--he could hear it.
A voice, it was not in his ears, but in his mind, that said Vengeance. "Vengeance is yours."
Elias closed his fists so hard that his nails tore his palms. "Get out of me." His voice was a rasp in the fallen wreck. "You are not mine. I am not yours."
But the memory rose unbidden.
The crash of the temple doors. The screams of the priests. The shadow spreading over the marble like tar. And then—those eyes. Golden, burning, cruel. It touched him and the demon smiled. The snarl of no beast, but of a human smile, which was calculated and conscious, as though Elias had been a part of it.
The brand was made when it put its clawed hand upon his heart. It was supposed to kill him like it killed the others. Rather he had risen on the floor to silence and blood. Alone. Marked.
He took a deep gulp and forced himself into motion. One step at a time he passed through the ruins, over the statues of the saints which had been shattered into pieces, over the mangled bodies of those who had believed in the church. He had been brought up in these halls, had years in silent shade. They had been his sanctuary. Now they were a grave.
His throat tightened. "Why me?" he whispered. "Why not take me with them?"
The silence replied, savage and undeveloped.
His head was stretched up towards the fractured roof. At one time he had heard that the angels kept an eye on the faithful, that the guardians of Heaven would come down when the faithful called on them. But there were no wings of light, and no trumpet blast, and no sword of fire, when the demon came.
Heaven had been silent.
But Hell… Hell had reached for him.
There was a crack which tore the night asunder in the ruins. Elias's head snapped up. His hand instinctively reached to the hilt of his sword, but the weight seemed heavier than normal as though the blade already knew of the stain within him.
Very low and steady came the voices in the courtyard on the other side of the broken gates. The flashing of the firelight came. Elias stole around to the archway, taking pains to stay in the shadows. He looked through the broken rock and saw them: men, moving in line, lanternes swinging, armour glimmering through the slightest light of the moon.
They carried a black flag printed with a burning cross.
The Inquisition.
Elias's stomach turned cold. These were no rescuers. The Inquisitors were poachers. A demon and the man it touched were to them the same. They would not observe a survivor--they would observe an apostate, a blemish to be scoured off.
The brand burnt hot through his skin as though it was taunting his fear.
Against a broken column he pressed his back and was obliged to inhale very gradually, as the soldiers stepped on the grounds of the temple. The voice of the captain was sharp, authoritative and cut the silence like a blade.
"Search the bodies. Leave no survivor. The touch of The Fallen cannot be allowed to pass.
The lines rapped Elias like strokes of a hammer. No survivor. Not even the innocent dead. They would ashes this to cinders.
He had to get away.
His eyes darted back to the gaping hole in the ceiling where the demon had demolished stone. Maybe he could climb—
"They will burn you to ash," the voice hissed from the brand, a mix of velvet and venom.
"But I can take you out."
Elias stalled, clutching at his chest. "No," he whispered through clenched teeth. "You will not 'take' me anywhere."
"You already follow," it hissed back, glib.
The sounds of boots approached. A soldier was getting closer; the torchlight spilled across the broken stones. Elias's hand tightened on his sword. If they found him, he would have to fight, and fighting the Inquisition would be a death sentence.
"So let me guide your hand," the voice continued, almost tenderly. "You want revenge. I will give it to you."
Elias bit down hard on his tongue until he drew blood and drowned it. But beneath the fear, the gnawing truth stirred in him. He did want revenge. Every corpse on the floor cried out for vengeance. Every unreplied prayer, every abandoned soul. Heaven did not answer. But something did.
The soldier turned the column. The torchlight was on Elias's face. Their eyes met.
"There!" the soldier yelled.
Chaos erupted. The temple filled with shouts as soldiers charged. Elias ripped his sword from the sheathe, the steel song reverberating in the chamber. His instincts surged his body faster and stronger, as if it had a will of its own. His blade cut through the soldier before he knew what had happened—clean and precise—and the soldier collapsed before his sickly orange torch touched the ground. Fire devoured the shattered stones, casting shadows to buckle and dance wildly in the flames.
Gasps broke through the room, sharp and disbelieving. Elias barely noticed. He was staring at the man at his feet, blood dripping off his sword in heavy drops that pattered against the stone. His chest rose and fell too fast, and the pounding in his ears—it wasn't his own heartbeat. It was the mark's.
"I told you," the voice murmured, almost amused. "You're mine now."
Elias swallowed hard, throat dry. He wanted to deny it, to scream back, but nothing came out except a hoarse sound that didn't even sound like him.
The Inquisitors spread out, blades drawn. Six of them. Six against one. Elias's back hit the altar and he froze there, trapped between the cold stone and their steady march forward. He thought about running, but his legs wouldn't move. His fingers clenched tighter around the sword hilt instead.
And then the pain came.
The mark burned like molten iron, searing through his chest. His vision blurred, then snapped into a frightening clarity. Every detail leapt at him—the flicker of a torch, the rivulet of sweat sliding down a man's cheek, the twitch in his fingers. Time itself seemed to slow, and Elias realized he could hear it all too: the scrape of boots, the short, uneven breaths, the blood rushing through their veins.
Then his body broke open.
He cried out, doubling over as something ripped through his back. The sound that tore from his throat was more animal than human. His vision went white with pain.
Wings burst out of him.
Not white, not feathered and holy, nothing like the paintings he'd seen as a boy. These were black fire and shadow, jagged feathers like shards of glass, smoke bleeding off their edges. The air reeked of burning.
The Inquisitors stopped. One man's mouth opened but no sound came. Another whispered, "What is he?"
Elias couldn't answer. His own body betrayed him, moving without thought. His sword lashed out, steel flashing. Two men fell before the others even raised their shields.
Blood sprayed hot across his face. It stung his eyes, metallic on his tongue. The others stumbled back, shouting, panic breaking their formation.
"No—" Elias tried to choke out, staggering, but his arm moved again, ready to strike. The mark pulsed in his chest, driving him forward like a puppet pulled on strings.
And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the strength left him.
The wings crumbled into smoke, fading into the dark. Elias dropped to his knees, gasping, sword slipping from his hand. His whole body trembled. He looked down at his hands, soaked red, fingers shaking so badly he could barely make a fist.
"What's happening to me?" His voice cracked, barely audible.
Silence fell over the chamber. But it wasn't empty silence—it pressed against him, thick and heavy. The torches dimmed as though something else was stealing their light.
And then, high above in the rafters, two eyes opened.
Gold. Burning. Smiling.
Elias's stomach dropped. His breath stuttered. He knew those eyes. He had seen them the night everything was taken from him.
The demon was here. Watching. Waiting.
"You feel it now, don't you?" the voice slid back into his mind, colder than before. "Your vengeance begins tonight."
Elias shook his head, tears threatening to spill. His body wouldn't move. He was trapped in himself, watching, waiting—just like before.
And then the thing moved.
Wings unfolded in the dark, vast and heavy, and with a sound like thunder tearing the air, the creature descended.