“Are you absolutely certain? Hallowed chords?” The cowled man spoke of the word like some godly myth.

“I struggle to believe it,” the Priest Keeper said. “But these chords are unmistakable.”

“The last male with Hallowed chords was born hundreds of years ago,” the man said. “Are you absolutely certain?”

The Priest Keeper tested my wrists again. “As certain as the daylight moons.”

The man’s expression remained doubtful. “Priesthood has kept me a virgin for sixty years. I have followed my pledge as I have my devotion. Yet if your claim holds true, I may consider myself thoroughly penetrated by the touch of Goddess Akona herself. This luck cannot exist.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” the Priest Keeper said, still examining my wrists. “But my twenty years in the study of magic does not allow any other explanation for the situation than a gift of the Moons. This man’s chords are as Hallow as the gods allow.”

What in the name of Shiela is happening! I barely had time to process their words, and I did not like that I was the topic of the conversation.

“You claim that the next incarnation of divinity itself has stumbled onto our turf by happenstance?” The man stared at her. “And this happens on the day the Founder himself has offered benedictions for the merest fraction of intel on Hallowed mana chords?”

“As I said,” the Priest Keeper said, “we are to call the emergency. Now.”

A small chuckle came from the man’s twisted mouth. He laughed, then outright cackled. “The World bless Azetoth! Carry this man to the clairvoyant chamber. Word of this is to reach the Founder today!”

The masked men took the order, offering me no chance to wish goodbyes to my cellmates. They lifted me from my armpits, then placed me down on a wooden chair. I was tied to its backrest with another layer of rope. The masked men carried me past dark hallways, into a basement, then upstairs, as casually as moving a palanquin.

A heavy door atop the stairs welcomed us to a spacious church. The hall was built like a reversed auditorium. An oversized podium—fit for three and adorned by freaky sculptures of animal heads—was stepped above the descending rows of wooden benches. Seats near the bottom wouldn’t see a damn thing above, and that seemed to be by design.

I hated that this was the most lavishly adorned room I had come across in my new world. A multi-layered chandelier lit every mosaic of the triangular ceiling. Red patterned carpets covered the aisles. In the middle of the hall was a wooden real-size sculpture of a wolf circling a swordsman.

The cowled man struggled to hold his chuckles. I was carried through the right-most aisle towards a small door by the quiet corner of the church. Holy shit, this was really happening. I feared even Jesus in his prime couldn’t have helped free me from the cultist’s tangled plans.

This is a war-free utopia, I thought. I have been sent by a fucking Goddess herself. Nothing bad can happen to me. I just need to trust in fate, and I cannot be—

My chair was planted inside the windowless chamber. Decorated with dust and dried bloodstains, the room’s furniture consisted of a wooden table with a locked chest on top, and a bed-like contraption that my knowledge of history interpreted as a torture rack. My face went pale.

The head cultist grinned as he kneeled to match my eye level. “Oh, how the Founder will be pleased. Oh, how you will please him indeed.”

“What do you want from me?” I managed to utter out in a terrified whimper.

“Me,” the cultist said. “I want your utmost devotion for your new allies. The cult of Azetoth! As for the Founder—it is beyond me what Azetoth has in plans for your Hallowed chords. Regardless, your presence has earned me the greatest of promotions. We are pleased to have you.”

“I will speak,” I said in a near whisper. “There is no need for torture…”

“Don’t worry, the rack is only to be used with the most difficult of problems,” the cultist said. “You are not a problem at all, but a gift of God. Priestess, open the chest. The emergency contact is to be used.”

The Priest Keeper nodded. With her staff and through some magical nonsense, the chest opened. Within lay a lone scroll. The head cultist grinned as he picked up the scroll. He ripped it in half.

The scroll turned to particles much the same way Em’s scroll of illumination had. The particles, however, did not dissipate but clung together like a school of fish. It formed the shape of a floating orb, forming a hologram.

Ten seconds later, the orb turned into the outline of a face. Monotone gray, I struggled to judge its characteristics, but it appeared like a man with long hair.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

“An emergency from Volés…” The head spoke with much more clarity than the hologram showed. “State your name, servant. And tell me the code.”

“Two, seven, six, Volés blooms in crimson,” the head cultist said. “My name is Arcturus, Priest of Volés. First Archpriest, Rigrith, please hear me.”

“And what may be the justification for calling an emergency?” the head, Rigrith, asked. “To remind you, the collapse of your station is not to be considered an issue. No reinforcements will be sent. Azetoth apologizes, but I recommend abandoning duty and escaping to Arkber.”

“The church lies undetected and perfectly operational,” Arcturus said. “I call on serendipitous news that is to reach the Lord Founder. My operation has captured and contained a fresh awakener of Hallowed mana chords.”

“What?” Rigrith asked.

“My station—”

“I heard you loud and clear,” Rigrith said. “I do not believe you. You clueless potato sniffers claim to have captured a fresh awakener of fucking Hallowed chords?”

“Yes,” Arcturus said. “Priestess twenty has confirmed this.”

“Which herbs has Priestess twenty been inhaling?” Rigrith asked. “I might require a puff to believe this claim.”

“The Priestess is inhaling twenty years of magical study,” Arcturus said. “I trust her judgment.”

Rigrith’s hologram watched Arcturus in doubt. “Who is the wielder?”

“The wielder is right here for your questioning,” Arcturus said. “Tied down and immobile.”

The eyes of the hologram turned to me. “State your name.”

“Cillian,” I said, too afraid to lie. “Cillian Bermeyer.”

“And whose reincarnation you might be?” Rigrith asked.

My mouth hung open for a moment. “Sorry?”

“Your parents,” Arcturus said, frowning at me.

I sat, frozen, reluctant to drop the information. Could these people do something to my parents? I doubted it. But what if interdimensional curses existed?

“Arcturus, Arcturus,” Rigrith said. “Have you called an emergency before confirming the identity of the sniffer you have captured? This is why I despise calls from you country idiots.”

“Lord Rigrith, I called you immediately and without delay,” Arcturus said. “I was under the impression that the arrival of Hallowed chords was most important regardless of identity.”

The hologram face stayed still for a moment. “This better not be a fake call, Priest Arcturus.”

“The awakener is Hallowed,” Arcturus said. “I swear upon my oaths to the cult and the Moons, this man is Hallowed.”

“Confirm this with every mage in your control,” Rigrith said. “Control the extent of his Corruption through any means necessary. If Averia is still alive, order her to keep the wielder safe. If anything happens to the subject, call the emergency.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Arcturus said.

“I will place my trust in your station,” Rigrith said. “My best mages will depart to Volés this second. I will deliver news of this to Azetoth personally.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Arcturus said.

“And for your orders…” Rigrith said. “Clear the man’s mouth and identity. Carve out his lineage. His parents, his grandparents, and their ancestors. His birthplace and date. His lovers and friends. Torture out his every bit of knowledge, his every fucking preference for pleasuring himself. No secrets are to be left inside his head by the time we arrive. You are not to waste Azetoth’s time introducing this sniffer.”

My breath caught. At that moment, my wishes for survival switched to prayers for a swift death. Torture. Rigrith had mentioned torture.

“I will not disappoint,” Arcturus said with a devoted bow.

Rigrith’s hologram nodded. “I expect perfect execution of orders. This meeting has concluded. Reinforcements arrive within two days.”

With that, the particles of the hologram dissipated into thin air. Silence filled the room, and I swore Arcturus could hear my heart begging for a savior. The orders couldn’t have been serious. Surely, I wouldn’t have to—

“You heard the orders!” Arcturus said. “Tie him to the rack.”

“No, please!” I called. “I’ll speak. Honest to God, I’ll answer anything you ask!”

The two lesser cultists got to work untying my rope, not listening to my pleas. I panicked. By uncontrollable reflex, I struggled and kicked, trying to stop the men from freeing me off the chair, onto the rack.

Hell, I was afraid of the goddamn dentist. One pinch at my body, and I was already skittish. I’d rather send the entirety of Earth to its swift death than spend five minutes in torture.

“Please!” I cried. “No. Stop. Stop!”

My hands were freed, the loops around my chest unwrapping. Reality registered in haphazard sensations. Holy hell. I was really on my way to the torture rack.

My eyes scanned the surroundings. I had no plan. I didn’t know what the hell I was even looking for. There was nothing I could use to save myself, and no Excaliburs spawned within my arm’s reach. Anything. Please. Something to help me.

One of the cultists untying me bumped his funny bone against the chair and cursed under his breath. The other paused to check on him.

The moment of distraction brought up something in my memory. A stupid thought, but the only hope of salvation I could cling to. I was a Goddess’s apostle. And as much as I liked to cry for my uselessness, and to curse Shiela for getting me here, I still had one gift from the gods I had been too busy to open.

In utter desperation, I whispered, “Status.”