“Do you hear something?” Grimloch asked.

“No, why?” Theresa peered up at the moving images in Uldar’s viewing room.

“Thought I did,” the sharkman said, his black doll-like eyes peering at the room’s entrance. “Not the first time one of us thought we heard something, though.”

“I think it's just wishful thinking at this point,” Theresa said, looking at the sharkman sympathetically. “We're getting more desperate for a clue. Any clue.” Her eyes turned back to the images around them. “But, there's nothing here. I'm starting to wonder if this place even has any more secrets to give up.”

She and the sharkman were standing in Uldar’s viewing room, watching the towering walls filled with moving images from all over Thameland. There were scenes of the countryside, the woods, mountainous valleys, and even the coast.

Some areas showed the battles that were going on across Thameland; soldiers, priests and knights struggling against armies of Ravener-spawn across a dozen different scenes.

The huntress let out a growl of frustration as she watched.

“Everyone’s out there, fighting to get rid of those monsters, while we're here…probably wasting our time,” she said. “I thought we would've found some clue by now, something, anything.”

“No clues.” Grimloch touched an image of a plump doe and her fawns foraging in a meadow. He licked his lips. “Nothing around. Nothing I smelled. Nothing we saw.”

Theresa threw her hands up. “There's all these images from all over Thameland, yet none of them suggest even one single place where the Ravener might be. None of them! You’d think one would hint at something: even if it's just a cave where a bunch of Ravener-spawn and dungeon cores are. Or you’d think Uldar would have left notes somewhere saying where the Ravener spawns when it comes back. Or how it spawns.”

“His notes say how it was made.” Grimloch walked over to Uldar’s chair, bending down to check if there was anything underneath it. It must’ve been the fiftieth time he’d done so. “Maybe that's all he wrote down.”

“It’d better not be, we need to find something,” she sounded frustrated. “Alex is ready to have the fight of his life, and we're here walking around these empty halls! I’m the one who wanted to start coming here to see if we could find a way to help him, the Heroes, and everyone else! But, we’re not finding anything and I’m just feeling completely useless!”

The sharkman shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with trying to find a trail. Sometimes one’s hard to find. Sometimes there isn’t one. Sometimes you're looking in the wrong place. Hard to know, unless you actually look. And that’s what we're doing… looking.”

“But maybe we've been doing too much looking around and not enough getting things done,” she said. “Maybe I'm just searching this place to make myself feel better and just wasting our time, maybe I’m only tricking myself into believing I'm being useful.”

The sharkman shrugged again. “Don't know. Do know it’s the one place where there might be a trail. That's it.”

“I don't think it's as simple as that,” she sighed. “But thanks for trying to make it look that way.”

“It is simple.” Grimloch walked over to another image, watching it closely. “People make things complicated. Life is simple. Simple is good. Lots of images here, we haven't looked at all of them. We still need to do that.”

“Fair enough,” Theresa said. “I guess it's gonna take us a while to look at all of them. Thanks a lot, you made me feel better…I was getting way too frustrated.”

“Wasn't trying,” he said.

“Thanks, Grimloch,” she said dryly.

Suddenly, Brutus began growling.

The cerberus was across the room sniffing the moving images. Two heads were focused on a particular one: a pine forest with a circle of mushrooms in its midsts.

Nearby, a pack of bone-chargers marched through the woods, moving in an endless tide. A fairy emerged from the circle of mushrooms, pausing when it saw the Ravener-spawn, then waved and flitted away.

Brutus kept growling.

“Oh, don't worry about them, boy,” Theresa said. “They’re probably working for that fae lord Drestra gave a bunch of Ravener-spawn to. Maybe that’s why the fairy seems friendly with them.” His growls grew deeper. “Wait…are you growling at the fairy? No, no, Brutus you don’t eat fairies.”

“Hey, here’s a thought,” Grimloch said. “That fae lord knows something, right? Maybe we could go ask him.”

Theresa frowned. “Maybe. Maybe not. If he’s an enemy, we don't want to poke that hornet’s nest until Alex, Isolde, and the others learn more about how to stop the Ravener.”

“Should still ask,” Grimloch growled. “Or should ask that fae that was guiding the Heroes around, if we see him again. Tasty-looking ones, they are, him and his moose. All, fat and juicy.”

“I just told Brutus not to eat fairies, don't set a bad example,” she said.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Just doing what’s natural,” he said. “Not my fault they look good. Anyway, don't have to worry. Don't know if we're ever gonna see those two again.”

----------------------------------------

Moving in near-silence, the Stalker, and the First Apostle crept up the stairs to Uldar’s sanctum.

The pair edged up the stairs slowly and carefully, ears cocked for signs of interlopers anywhere near. They had no idea if the foreigners were inside, but—if none were—they didn't know if they’d be disturbing Uldar or his servants.

Without exchanging a word, the pair kept going. The Stalker’s ears were perked up, his predatory eyes scanned their surroundings—his moose sniffed the air, hooves and bells unnaturally silent.

Gabrian looked this way, and that, not searching for enemies, but rather gaping at murals and the architecture of Uldar’s sanctum. Tears swan in his eyes as his heart was filled with ecstasy at all he was seeing. With every step, he knew he was coming closer to his god.

Closer to speaking with him.

To hearing his words from his own voice.

No more would he communicate through signs that he had to interpret, but rather through real and direct speech. No longer would Uldar’s word be a metaphor for him to ponder, nor would it be confined to ancient texts written long before even his father's, father's, father was born.

He would speak to his god, he would receive his benediction.

At least, so he hoped, for deep within himself, his spirit was in turmoil.

The Fool’s words were plaguing his thoughts.

‘Steady yourself, Gabrian,’ he thought. ‘Do not let lies burden your mind. Your god will see your heart, he will know that you doubt him. Do not let your first meeting with Uldar fill him with disappointment. He lives, his servant asked you to come and speak with him and you will soon hear his own words.’

He frowned. ‘Then you can tell him of the sins of this cycle’s Fool, his wrath will surely fall upon him!’

Yet, no matter how many times he repeated that to himself, questions still burned in his mind.

Again, he asked himself how the Fool had laid his hands on Uldar’s divine equipment. Again, he asked himself how the Fool could break Uldar’s holy commandments that prevented him from doing spellcraft or violence. Again, he asked himself how interlopers were allowed to hold the very doorway to his god’s sanctum.

Especially, when those interlopers had caused his children, those from the holiest branch of his church, endless suffering and so much pain, and had caused the slaughter of so many.

If Uldar was truly waiting on his divine throne at the end of these stairs, then, why would he tolerate the presence of such blasphemers and demons?

A single dreaded answer kept coming to him, but he kept pushing it away.

‘Remember when you first learned that the order was to always keep the Ravener’s cycle going?’ he asked himself, silently mounting each step. He was awestruck, taking in murals of Heroes from the ancient past, though he felt a bit disappointed that his chronicle was not among theirs.

Perhaps Uldar was simply waiting for one of his servants to extend the mural.

He shook his head, refocusing his mind.

He was letting himself be distracted.

‘Remember how concerned you were when you were told that the hidden church’s holy mission—one of its many—was to ensure that the cycle did not end until Uldar decreed it so.’ he reminded himself. ‘You were shocked, filled with confusion, and even a great deal of anger. Those were the emotions of the young, of those who did not understand the full breadth of Uldar’s plan. Even now, you do not know his will. But the difference is that now, you are old enough to understand you are not meant to, you are mere mortal: a child desperately trying to know the actions of his father-god. You will never know them, not completely. Do not question, for it would be the same as a child questioning why his beloved parents must go out and till the fields, or why snow falls after the harvest season has ended.’

The First Apostle nodded to himself, growing more confident. ‘Yes, if you could grow to accept that Uldar’s plan needed the Ravener’s cycle to continue, then could you not also understand that his plan might involve these interlopers holding the door to his sanctum? If anything, this new revelation is less upsetting.’

He took deep breaths, just as he did when practising the art of life enforcement. ‘Consider your situation, Gabrian. You have lost one of your closest friends, you have lost members of those you would call family. You have seen the ruin of folk that you watched grow from infancy. You are strong, Chosen of Uldar, but there is a limit to your strength. You are simply grieving, and are not thinking clearly. The Fool told you lies, for that is what he is, a liar, and yet here you are allowing your sorrow to cloud your judgement. Do not do so. Look forward with your head held high, for you are about to meet your god, and look upon his wondrous countenance. This will be, without doubt, the happiest moment of your life. Do not allow worry to turn good to ash on your tongue, or to poison in your veins. For Izas, for Eldin, and for every servant of the hidden church, meet your god with a smile. Smile, even though your heart has broken.’

He continued up the steps, wiping tears from his eyes and fixing his face with a smile.

Together, he and the Stalker moved forward as he imagined what his god would say to him. Would he show him mercy and kindness for his losses? Would he congratulate him on how well he had led the hidden church? He grimaced. Or would he chastise him for allowing such ruin to come to his people?

As he imagined what awaited at the top of the stairs, he spotted a mural on the left that gave him pause: an image of the Heroes, floating together, battling the Ravener.

But, strangely, there was no Fool among them, instead, there was another Hero in their place—one he had never heard mentioned before.

“What is this?” he murmured to himself.

“Shh!” the Stalker hissed as the First Apostle approached the mural, looking at the words below it.

“The Mark of the General?” he wondered. “What is that? The General’s folly? But that was committed by a Fool not…whatever this is…what in Uldar’s name does this mean?”

“I said shh! We’re nearly at the top of the stairs,” the Stalker hissed again.

Gabrian turned, taking the stairs quicker.

Too many questions now swirled in his head.

He needed to speak to his god.

The first Apostle reached the last step and, at long last, his eyes fell on Uldar’s throne. The white throne had been somehow stained with a black substance, and there was no sign of his god sitting there. But, what was that tall form draped in a shroud lying before the throne?

His blood stilled.

“No…” the word caught in his throat, he fought to calm his heaving breath as his worst fears coursed through his mind.

“Shut up!” the Stalker whispered. “I smell something—”

Gabrian ignored the fae’ words and fled, running across the throne room at a sprint, only stopping beside the shrouded form. His hand shook as it gripped his sword’s hilt, then sheathed it, and in dread, raised the top of the shroud, uncovering what lay beneath.

For a breath, his mind teetered.

Then cracked.

The First Apostle of Uldar began to wail as if his heart was broken, he screamed with the anguish of a tormented soul. “No! Noooooooo!”

“Shut up!” the Stalker shouted.

----------------------------------------

Grimloch and Theresa looked at each other.

“Okay, I know you heard that,” he said.

Nearby, Brutus growled louder.

The huntress drew the Twinblade. “Yes, I definitely heard that. Come on.”

Together, the trio moved toward the door.