The Archbishop's murmured prayers ceased. He stood, the simple motion carrying a weight that stilled the air in the high-ceilinged chapel. His voice, when it came, was not loud, but it was cold enough to leach the warmth from the stone.
"Stop."
The single word, sharp as a shard of ice, sliced through the rhythmic sound of Eclipse's practice. Eclipse halted his sword mid-swing, the blade freezing in a sunbeam now turned grey by the clouded windows. He turned his head, his breathing the only sound in the sudden quiet.
The Archbishop stood in absolute silence for a long moment, his gaze fixed on something only he could see beyond the altar. Then, without another word or glance, he turned and began walking toward the temple's great, iron-bound gates. His steps were slow and deliberate, the heavy fabric of his robes whispering secrets against the flagstones.
After precisely ten steps, the sound of his footsteps measured and even, he paused. He did not turn his body, but his head tilted slightly, his profile sharp against the gloom. His words were directed over his shoulder, a command tossed behind him like a bone.
"Come with me," he said, his tone allowing no room for question. "And take your sword with you."
With that, the Archbishop resumed his walk, his back a dark, receding column.
Eclipse watched him for a second, then moved. He found his scabbard leaning against a pew, its leather worn smooth. With a practical, unceremonious motion, he guided the tip of his blade into its mouth and sheathed it. The final click of the guard settling home was a full stop to the morning's exercise. Then, falling into step, he followed the Archbishop, maintaining a respectful distance of several paces behind.
The transition from the temple's incense-heavy dimness to the outside world was jarring. The first thing Eclipse did was look up. A vast, cloudy grey sky stretched from horizon to horizon, a dome of pressed wool. The light was diffuse and shadowless, leaching color from the world.
'Today is going to rain,' he thought, the observation surfacing in his mind with flat certainty. 'It's going to rain.'
Precipitation was a rarity in this high, arid land. Yet, paradoxically, the sky was almost perpetually shrouded in these same leaden clouds, as if holding its breath. But when it finally broke, it did not simply shower. It poured. It wept. It would unleash a torrent that lasted for weeks, turning dust to mud and roads into rushing streams, drowning the world in a relentless, drumming grey.
Without a word, the Archbishop led the way down the long, cascading staircase that spilled from the temple mount. The steps were ancient, worn smooth in the centers by countless pilgrims, now slick with impending damp. At the bottom, the Archbishop turned north, away from the outbuildings and the well-trodden paths, and entered the woodland that crowded against the temple's domain.
The air changed. The clean, cold scent of stone and incense was replaced by the rich, complicated smells of the forest: damp pine, decaying leaves, the sweet rot of mushrooms, and the dark, fertile scent of earth. The path, barely visible, was a tunnel through the undergrowth.
They found the wolf in a small, misty clearing where the trees grew close. It was a large beast, its pelt a mix of grey and brown that should have let it melt into the shadows. But the dark, wet stain blooming across its left haunch and the awkward, painful angle at which it held the leg made it a glaring monument of agony.
As their footsteps crunched on the forest floor, the wolf's head snapped up. Its eyes, a pale and startling yellow, locked onto them. A raw, ragged howl tore from its throat—a sound that was less a warning and more a declaration of suffering and trapped defiance. It tried to surge forward, to defend its territory or perhaps to flee, but its injured leg collapsed under its weight. It stumbled, a pitiful and desperate scramble.
The Archbishop observed this for a moment. Then, with a calmness that was unnerving, he simply stepped aside, moving to the edge of the clearing near a gnarled oak. He turned his head towards Eclipse, his face an impassive mask. No words were needed. The silent instruction was as clear as a shouted order.
Eclipse understood immediately. His hand went to the hilt of his sword at his hip. In one smooth, practiced motion, he drew the blade. The sound it made was clean and sharp, cutting through the forest's muffled quiet.
Shiiing.
The metallic ring seemed to hang in the humid air.
The wolf reacted instantly to the promise of steel. A deep, continuous growl vibrated from its chest, a sound felt in the soles of the feet. It pulled its black lips back over gums, baring teeth that were long, yellowed, and wickedly curved. It gnashed them together with a loud, grating crunch-crunch, a horrific grinding of bone on bone.
Drip. Drip.
Strings of thick, clear saliva, glistening with hunger and pain, dripped from between its ferocious fangs, spattering onto the brown leaves below. Gathering the last of its strength, the wolf shifted its weight, its good legs coiling. With a roar that was more a scream of fury and fear, it launched itself through the air in a last, desperate lunge. Its target was Eclipse's throat.
Eclipse did not meet the charge head-on. At the last possible fraction of a second, he moved. It was not a dramatic leap, but a subtle, efficient shift of balance. His legs propelled him lightly to the right, his body turning just enough. The wolf's heat, its smell of blood and wet fur, washed over him. A claw, extended like a scythe, passed close enough for him to feel the wind of its passage against his cheek.
The wolf landed with a heavy THUMP, its momentum carrying it forward in a skid, its claws tearing ugly rents in the moss and soil where Eclipse had just stood.
Failure fueled a berserk rage. Pain forgotten, the wolf whirled, its focus now singular and insane. It charged again, this time low to the ground, a grey blur aimed not for a killing blow but for crippling damage—the powerful muscles of Eclipse's right leg.
This time, Eclipse did not evade. He planted his feet, his sword held point-down beside him. He watched the beast come, his expression unreadable, his breathing controlled. He was a statue waiting for the final, connecting blow. He let the wolf enter the absolute dominion of his blade's reach.
The wolf closed the final distance in a burst of frantic speed. Its jaws gaped wide—a nightmare maw of pink flesh, reeking breath, and those terrible, sinking teeth. They struck, punching through Eclipse's leather greave and into the flesh of his calf. A bright, hot lance of pain shot up his leg. He felt the pressure of the jaws clamping down, the wet heat of his own blood instantly filling his boot.
He did not panic. He did not cry out.
Instead, in a motion of brutal, clinical precision, he reversed his grip on his sword. Now holding it like a dagger, pommel toward the sky, he drove it downward. It was not a swinging cut, but a focused, powerful plunge. He aimed for the point just behind the wolf's ear, where the skull was thinner.
The impact was a wet, solid CRUNCH. The blade punched through bone and into the brain.
The effect was instantaneous. The furious, wild light in the wolf's yellow eyes vanished, snuffed out like a candle. Its jaw, locked in a vice-grip of agony and rage, went slack. The immense pressure on Eclipse's leg released. The great body shuddered once, a final full-body tremor, and then collapsed into complete lifelessness. Its head hit the ground with a dull, final thud.
A grim silence returned to the clearing, broken only by Eclipse's steady breath and the distant sigh of the wind. He placed his boot on the wolf's now-still head, braced himself, and pulled his sword free. The sound was soft, a sickening suck of release. With a swift, practiced flick of his wrist, he sent an arc of dark blood splattering onto the ferns and moss, cleaning the blade. He then looked down at the fallen beast, his face a mask of cold completion. There was no triumph in his eyes, only the empty satisfaction of a necessary task performed.
At the sideline, the Archbishop had watched the entire violent exchange without a sound, without a movement beyond the slow folding of his hands before him. His dark eyes, depthless and observant, had missed nothing: the patient calculation, the acceptance of pain, the efficient, merciful finality of the strike. He stood as he had from the beginning—a silent, judging monument in the gathering gloom. Above them, the sky finally broke, and the first heavy drops of the promised rain began to fall, pattering on the leaves like a slow, solemn drum.