The Hall of Pulse lay at the very heart of the main castle of the Crimson Wastes — a massive structure of dark crimstone whose walls seemed to breathe in time with an unseen heartbeat. The main castle stood deep within the territory, far from the borders, and was the bastion of the cult, its holy of holies. It was here, in the Hall of Pulse, that the High Priestess made the most important decisions and heard the rhythm of her god more clearly than anywhere else.
Today, the senior priests had gathered here.
There were four of them — gaunt, stooped figures in crimson robes embroidered with golden threads. They stood in a semicircle before the dais where Mens usually sat, and waited. The light, filtering through the crimson stained glass, painted their faces in shades of dried blood, making their expressions seem even grimmer.
When Mens entered, all four bowed their heads. She walked past them with a light, almost dancing gait and stopped by the dais, but did not sit. Instead, she turned her back to them and looked at the great crimson crystal embedded in the wall behind the throne. The crystal pulsed — slowly, rhythmically, like a living heart. It was one of the fragments of the Brain of Cthulhu, through which she heard His will.
"Speak," she said without turning around.
"The ritual is nearly complete, High Priestess," began the first priest, the oldest among them, with crimson cataracts in place of eyes. His voice was creaky, like an old door. "The Altar is finished. The sacrificial veins are laid. In two days, we will be able to begin."
"I know," Mens replied.
"But there are… doubts," spoke the second priest, slightly younger, with sharp features and an unpleasant, slippery gaze. "Some of us are not certain that the stranger is a suitable vessel."
Mens turned slowly. Her scarlet eyes fixed upon the speaker, and he faltered.
"Continue," she said in an icy tone.
"He is not of our blood," the third priest interjected. "He does not hear the rhythm. He has not proven his loyalty. If the ritual fails…"
"The ritual will not fail," Mens interrupted. "My husband has chosen him. Do you doubt His choice?"
The third priest lowered his head, but the fourth, the youngest among them, with a nervous face and darting eyes, still dared:
"High Priestess, we all feel the approach of war. The Human Empire and the Light are massing troops at our borders. If the ritual is delayed…"
"It will not be delayed." Mens took a step forward, and all four involuntarily stepped back. "You have forgotten your place. My husband has spoken to me. He has confirmed: this man is the one we have been waiting for. In two days, the Altar will receive him, and our god will take flesh. And you…" She swept them with a gaze full of contempt. "You will stand in the front rows and watch His will be done. Or do you wish to dispute His command?"
The silence in the hall became almost tangible. None of the priests dared to utter a word. At last, the one with the cataracts bowed his head once more.
"We obey, High Priestess."
"Good." Mens turned away and looked again at the pulsing crystal. "Go. Prepare the Altar. And let no one dare to doubt my husband again. Or me."
The priests, backing away, left the hall.
When the heavy doors closed behind them, Mens remained alone. She knelt before the crystal and pressed her marked palm against the cold stone. The rhythm of the Brain filled her, soothing, guiding. She closed her eyes and allowed herself, for a moment, to forget everything — the war, the priests' doubts, the disquiet that had settled in her ever since she had first laid eyes on Arthur.
He is calm. Far too calm. Why?
The thought flickered and vanished, suppressed by the rhythm. The Brain was untroubled — therefore, neither should she be.
She rose from her knees and made her way to the exit. Two days lay ahead. Two days until the moment for which she had lived the last seven years. And she would allow no one — not the priests, not the humans, not the Stranger himself — to hinder it.
---
Aerius stood in the inner courtyard of the castle, looking at Goldcrest. The griffin had not yet recovered: the wound on his flank had closed, but his wing was still bandaged, and flying him for long was a risk. But there was no time. Every hour spent waiting could be the last for the lad and his dragoness.
"You're sure he can make the flight?" came a voice from behind.
Aerius turned. The Younger Goblin — the head of intelligence — was approaching. Today he was clad not in his usual robes, but in light leather armor, like a ranger. A short bow hung on his back, and at his belt were a quiver of arrows and several throwing knives.
"He'll make it," Aerius answered shortly. "He's stronger than he looks."
The Goblin grunted.
"So are we all, I hope. I've brought two of my best trackers. They're waiting at the gate. Shall we?"
"Let's go."
They started toward the gate, but under the archway, a voice stopped them:
"Aerius."
The King stood in the shadow of the colonnade, leaning on his staff. He looked weary, but in his eyes burned the same fire Aerius had seen only once — during the Last War.
"You know this could be a trap," the King said.
"I know."
"And that the chances of coming back are slim."
"I know."
The King was silent for a moment, then nodded.
"Then go. And bring them back. If you can."
Aerius touched his fist to his chest — an old soldier's gesture he had not used in many years — and, without looking back, walked out through the gate.