God.

At one point in time, the existence of such a being was highly contested. All over the world, people debated and fought and killed. Bleeding for their belief.

Which was, admittedly, a little embarrassing - as they all turned out to be wrong.

There was no more concrete proof than what Earth encountered post Transit. Nothing could be more convincing than the real thing.

The journey to the Aegis happened in a blinding flash. Suddenly, Earth wasn't in the solar system anymore. It had been moved, slotted into the Aegis to fill a chink in its planetary armour. And the thing that did the moving... well... it was God. With a capital G.

But it wasn't some metaphorical elephant under the stairs who could smell naughty dreams. No, the god of the Aegis dealt in the currency of reality. It didn't offer miracles but seeds.

Star seeds, to be precise.

Shortly after arriving in the Aegis, missionaries from foreign planets showed up and began establishing churches in the nicer parts of what was left of Earth. The Church Of TorKulSear, or, as everyone without a stick up their ass called it, The Church Of The Lighthouse.

Fyn had seen its disciples more than a few times, as they often ventured into the poorer areas of Dublin to preach and give out rations. For the most part, the church's teachings were white noise to the working class, but their food was certainly appreciated. However, Fyn didn't think free food would be enough to convince him this time.

Not when the church hated his guts.

The street was quiet save for the heavy sound of Fyn's breathing. He stared blankly at the building opposite, his instincts screaming at him to run away. Karst wasn't there either. Fyn would be pretty pissed if he had meant seven pm, rather than am. And he was already pretty pissed.

'Act natural,' he told himself. 'Why would they think you're a humanist if you don't give them a reason to be suspicious?"

Fyn took a deep breath and crossed the street without bothering to look both ways. There was no need. People often joked that you were more likely to get hit by a blight invasion while crossing the street than a car, which probably wasn't far from the truth.

Besides, Fyn was trying to appear confident. He was doing his best to look like he belonged there, which was difficult in moth-eaten clothes and shoes with holes in them. But he sure as hell tried.

Having seen a few pre-transit churches, Fyn could say with absolute certainty that the Church Of The Lighthouse looked nothing like them. Instead of spires and stained-glass windows, it was a twisting wooden mass that looked like a hollowed-out tree. He wasn't sure how they avoided termite damage, but Fyn assumed the otherworlders had figured out a method. They must have - otherwise, they wouldn't be living in a building made entirely of wood.

The church had branches that stretched out over the street, with hundreds of sparkling black spheres hanging from them like Christmas baubles. Each one caught the light like a disco ball, shattering it and sending millions of black sparkles in every direction.

He crossed the street and stared up at the entrance to the church. It was quite narrow, but rather tall, as though a fold in the roots had opened up to grant him passage... or ensnare him...

Everything about the building felt natural - as though it had simply grown there by coincidence.

Through the door, he could hear humming and chanting that seemed to be growing in intensity. The hymns were like nothing he'd ever heard before, hypnotic and yet otherworldly, possessing a rhythm and melody he couldn't quite put his finger on.

After checking the street for Karst and finding the big man absent, Fyn wandered through the entrance. The building was warm and smelt of pine needles and fresh loam. Chants echoed down the corridor, warbling as they bounced off the gnarled roots and tangled moss that hung down from the ceiling and clung to walls. The sole light source was a flickering lantern hanging from above. It creaked, swaying in a gentle breeze.

Fyn felt like he was walking into the belly of the beast itself. His back was caked with sweat, and his knees felt weak, but despite it all, he kept walking. If there was even a chance Karst was in there, he had to check.

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As long as he stayed inconspicuous, he would be safe. Or so he told himself, anyway.

Soon, the passageway widened into a deep chamber in the Earth. It resembled the hollowed insides of a cauldron. The walls were a lattice of thick roots woven together like a wicker basket, and the ceiling was a matted canopy of leaves and branches that allowed tiny beams of sunlight in from above. The light bathed the room in an almost holy glow, streaking down in heavenly shafts.

The chamber itself was circular, with almost one hundred seats orbiting a central pedestal. The floor was wooden and seemed to be made entirely from one singular piece of wood. It looked like the base of a tree trunk that had been chopped down, with endless concentric rings that closed in at the centre.

Only about half the seats were full, and most of the people there were otherworlders or young sentinels. Fyn could tell from the way they carried themselves that they were different from him. Most were human, and yet, they seemed cut from a superior cloth. Silk, maybe. It was like the space bent around them to accommodate their mere presence. It almost felt like they each had a gravitational field of their own, warping space around them like a miniature black hole.

Everyone in there had a unique gravitas to them, but Fyn's eyes were drawn to a few distinctly inhuman silhouettes. A towering brute covered in thick hair like that of a bear. A woman with four arms and no eyes, a child with wrinkles and grey hair.

None of them seemed to notice his arrival. They were busy staring raptly at the centre of the room, where a priest gave service.

Fyn blinked a few times, adjusting to the gloomy interior of the church. Thankfully, It wasn't long before he could see perfectly fine. Another perk of his new powers, perhaps.

With the help of his excellent night vision, Fyn spotted the hulking figure of Karst on one of the outer rows of seats. He was sitting apart from the rest of the church's worshipers - as though separated by some unseen barrier.

The big man glanced up at Fyn and smiled. In this light, his teeth shone like a shark's teeth in the gloom of deep water.

Fyn scowled and slipped through a few rows of chairs, quickly arriving beside the big man. He noted that while the rest of the church was singing hymns, Karst was not.

"Why the hell are we meeting here?" Hissed Fyn as he slid into the seat beside Karst. "Have you lost your damn mind?"

"No, I know exactly where I left itt," Karst muttered as Fyn sat down.

"... What?"

"I'm kidding! Lighten up, will ya? These sermons are always so annoying, so I don't need you in my ear adding to the mess."

Fyn reached out, about to grab the big man's wrist to try and seize his attention. But as his hand moved out, he froze. Some primal, animal instinct told him that if he should touch Karst, the next thing he touched would be the ground. Or six feet beneath it.

He pulled his hand back and leant in. "Listen, this is really dangerous, right? Weren't we talking about... you know what, yesterday, and you said that..." Fyn stabbed a finger towards the Priest, "those lot are out to get us."

"Maybe not those particular lot, but I get your point. Just calm down for a second, and everything will make sense. Trust me, I've got this under control."

"How??" Fyn hissed. "I would like to see some evidence of that!"

Karst smiled wickedly. "Just wait," he said. "I have friends in high places, and I think you're going to want to hear what they have to say."

Fyn scrutinised the big man but couldn't find any chinks in his armour. His face was unreadable, his posture inscrutable. He glanced around, fixing the exit in his view. Thankfully, no one had moved to block it, so this probably wasn't an ambush. But he still made sure to keep tabs on the people coming and going.

While the hymns died down, petering off into mere humming, Fyn fidgeted nervously. He kept glancing between Karst – who looked utterly bored by the whole thing – and the High Priest.

The Priest was rake-thin and about seven feet tall. As Fyn watched him move, he was reminded of a praying mantis. The man's build and mannerisms were thin and sharp, respectively.

He stood in the centre of the congregation like a conductor before an orchestra, waving his bony pianist hands towards the heavens as though trying to claw down the sky itself. He wore deep green robes that seemed woven from moss and leaves and had a completely bald head that shone under a particularly thick sunbeam. His nose was hooked, giving him an almost vulture-like appearance, and his eyes were sunken and black.

He led the congregation in their singing like a blacksmith tending to a fire. Sometimes, he would stoke the coals with a shout or cool them with barely a whisper. Every single person in the room hung onto his every word as though they were worth more than gold. Their eyes shone with excitement that had reached a fever pitch.

Fyn couldn't look away from the man. He felt like his eyes were glued to the writhing figure on the pedestal.

"When does this end?" he whispered.

"Any minute now," replied Karst. "And then you can meet the most powerful humanist on earth."

Fyn's eyes widened. "The most powerful?" He asked excitedly. Despite himself, Fyn was nothing if not a sucker for sentinels.

"I'll stop you right there," Karst grunted. "This man derives his power from influence, not strength. It's not his fists you should fear, but his mouth. One word from him is worth more than a thousand punches."

Fyn swallowed and turned away from Karst, continuing to watch the high Priest dance in the flickering shafts of light. He wasn't really paying attention to the songs being sung. Instead, he was lost in thought, wondering why a humanist of such influence would be here of all places.