“This is the third disappearance just this Sprig! We must send word to the Arch-priest!” Priestess Cassandra’s voice echoed throughout the hall. She stood upon a slightly lifted platform, the other Priest and Priestesses of her rank beside her with a crowd of Initiate and Acolytes behind.

“Do not let your emotions cloud your judgement, Priestess Cassandra.” Priest Fabian said, stepping forth.

Cassandra scowled at the man, “My emotions? Priest Fabian, are you blind to the woes of the village we are charged to bring the light of Lumia to?”

Fabian placed a hand on his chest as if he had been punched, “Blind? How could you say such harsh words Priestess, I’m charged with the same duty as you and am filled with nothing but pain at the villagers misfortunes, but we must remember! We are in the North, such events are not unheard of.”

Cassandra squinted her amber eyes at the man, “So you’re saying we should ignore three missing people, of which is a child of only six?”

Fabian scoffed, “Ignore? Have we not sent Markus and three other sentinels to investigate and search for the child? Are you suggesting we’re so incompetent that we must bother the Arch-priest with such minor problems!” He said, waving his hand in the air dismissively.

Between the two, standing behind a podium of golden accented white stone, High-priestess Elenar sighed. There was not much more she could do, perhaps a larger search party is in order if Markus returns empty handed. She thought of the three other disappearances, all young unfortunate souls, but still of ages capable of understanding the dangers of the forest.

“High-priestess!” Cassandra said, her voice turning serious. “I sense something is amiss.”

“Amiss?” Fabian sneered, “Are you implying that someone is to blame?”

Cassandra didn’t reply, for she had no evidence outside of her gut feelings.

Fabian smiled, a sneer rising to his lips. “Perhaps the heathen knows something? Does the boy not spend most of his time frolicking around the very forest in question?” He accused.

Cassandra and many others were surprised at his sudden outlandish claim, brows raising in bewilderment. Fabian’s disdain of Tyrian was an open-secret, but this was on another level. “How dare you!” A voice shouted in his defense. Corina shook her fist into the air, seemingly ready to fight the man in the boy's defense. Tyrian had been standing to the side of the crowd, listening to the two arguing in silence until he was wildly off-guard by the accusation. His eyes narrowed but he remained silent.

High-priestess Elenar raised her hand, causing the room to go silent. “Enough, Priest Fabian. Your comments on Initiate Tyrian are irrelevant to the current discussion. We shall withhold until Markus and the rest of the Sentinels return from their search. I pray that the child has merely wandered too far and will be found soon.” Elenar then dismissed the gathering after giving orders to remain vigilant and to increase patrols around the village periphery.

Tyrian was going to make for his room, not wanting to spend anymore time around Fabian before Corina grabbed him and pulled him into a suffocating hug.

“Little Tyrian, don’t let that sour man get to you.” She consoled him. Tyrian, feeling the softness of her body reddened in the face and quickly pried himself from her grasp.

“Thank you big sis, don’t worry, he doesn’t bother me.” He said. Corina pouted as he pulled away from her, “Oh my, how mature of you Tyrian but is that blush I see rising to your cheeks?” She said cheekily.

Tyrian rolled his eyes.

Corina chuckled a little before falling solemn once more. “I agree with Priestess Cassandra, I also feel something amiss. Oh how terrible it must be for the mother! She hasn’t slept in days and we haven’t been able to get any Nightbloom since it’s so early into the season.” She said regretfully.

Tyiran rummaged through his memory for the plant. Nightbloom was a somewhat rare wild herb that helped act as a sedative and painkiller when made into a tea, but could only be found at night somewhat deeper into the forest.

“I could get some.” He offered.

Corina’s eyes went wide, quick to admonish him. “What! No way you’re going anywhere near the forest—”

“--I mean from Mendel! The herbalist has a stockpile of wild herbs!” Tyrian said, waving away her concerns.

“Oh!” She said, tapping her tender cheeks. “That’d be perfect! Since you’re already going all the way there, try snagging a tincture if possible, otherwise a dried bundle will work just as well. Here.” She said, taking out ten small Orba and placing it in his palm. “Go now, and come back immediately afterwards, you hear me?” She said with a stern finger.

Tyrian nodded, “Of course.”

—

The village had returned to its usual buzz of movement, however, the fruit-lady’s screams and her agonizing wails had strung a dissonance with the clear Spring day.

Such pain is not easily forgotten, her screams echoed in many minds, and shops, stalls, and even the usual commotion by the small Inn, was muted. Villagers waited with tentative breaths for the Sentinels to return from their investigative search.

Tyrian passed by Initiate Levi, who was discussing and offering prayers to a group of farmers, he saw Hans & his sons who waved at him.

Tyrian waved back, frowning as he saw Levi purse his lips in disgust at the sight of him.

These guys are getting on my nerves.

He ignored the slight, and kept on through the village.

In the distance he could faintly make-out Mendel’s humble home, seeing the faint line of smoke rising from the old man’s chimney. It was a good sign, for it meant he was most likely home.

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Though, when Tyrian finally reached the Herbalist’s abode, he saw the front gate that surrounded the garden swung wide open. A rare sight, since the old man was terribly meticulous in keeping his small plots of herbs safe from the deer and rabbits that lived in the nearby forest.

Tyrian paused…

The door to the home was open, similarly swung wide.

Somethings… not right.

The gate, forgettable, but the door? Impossible.

Tyrian's hands twitched as he riled his Capacity awake, keeping a mental-trigger on a Mote of [Push].

He carefully approached the door with his palm extended preemptively.

Seeing nothing from the boundary of the door, he stepped inside rapidly sweeping his eyes and palm around the space.

But it was empty.

The hearth burned, simmering a pot hungover it's licking flames. The hundreds of herbs hanging from the rafters swung ever-so lightly in the breeze brought in by the open door.

Curiously, on the small table was a steaming bowl of soup, the unmistakable scent of Ouy mixed with herbs told Tyrian clearly that it was freshly made.

“Hello?” He said aloud, quietly at first. When he received no reply, he raised his voice a smidge.

“Mendel!” But nothing once more.

Did the old geezer run into the forest to grab a herb? Why would he leave a fresh bowl of—

“--AHHHH”

Tyrian’s entire body tensed, as a distant scream of pain sliced through the tension. He whipped around, [Push] ready to fire.

He saw only the flutter of birds, flying away from the depths of the forest.

Fuck.

Tyrian quickly weighed his options, he had about six Orbs in his Capacity, having burned three during today’s practice.

Did he have time to run to the Temple? It’d take at least twenty minutes to run there and back, but that scream sounded pretty fucking urgent.

He groaned.

WHERE THE HELL IS MENDEL!?

Tyrian grit his teeth and dashed out of the herbalists’ home sprinting towards the forest as fast as his little ten year old legs could take him.

His steps found purchase amidst dense brush as he weaved between the now familiar bamboo labyrinth.

He kept running until he heard another scream, this time much closer.

“GAAAH!” A man’s voice shouted, bringing Tyrian to a sudden stop. He approached the source of the noise with careful steps, slowly peeking around a trunk, his hands twitching with an already prepared [Pierce].

In a small, artificially created clearing he saw the Sentinels in the midst of battle. Bodies both familiar and foreign spewed across the clearing. Two Sentinels lay lifeless on the dirt floor. Robes once white were stained red, torn apart as if they’d been ravaged by a wild beast.

He saw Markus, the dark haired man was panting heavily with his iron spear pointed forwards weakly. Another Sentinel to his side was in similarly dire straits, barely able to hold his spear as his arm bled profusely.

Tyrian’s silver eyes followed the direction of his spears point, his breath catching in his lungs as he caught sight of the opponents.

Three lanky men, dressed in dark robes cackled at the disheveled Sentinels. The robes covered only their torso, baring the unnaturally malnourished and pale skin loudly.

“HEHEhheeeheee…” they cackled through razor teeth, brandishing disgustingly long nails that looked sharp as razors. They held their bald heads, unbothered by the casual self-mutilation.

Markus could only grimace his eyes sweeping over his two fallen comrades. “You must run!” He whispered over to the bleeding Sentinel, “You must inform the Temple!”

The sentinel shook his head, “I will not leave you brother!” He shouted back.

Suddenly one of the cultists lashed forwards, swiping their claws through the air. A stream of dark-purple energy slashed forwards in four vorpal blades, slicing through the air in screaming speed.

Markus’ eyes widened as he quickly stepped forwards, swinging his own spear to meet the attack.

His spear point glowed, a blade of light forming over the metal point. He cut across the attack barely dispersing the attack in time.

“GUAH!” The Sentinel screamed at his side. Another cultist had attacked while he was distracted, and was unable to defend himself in time.

“DAVIO!” Markus screamed, but was quickly met with another vorpal claw attack. He coughed blood, stumbling backwards as he blocked another attack with his blade of light — now flickering under the unrelenting stream of attacks.

Markus despaired, his will, crumbling.

The cultists cackled as they continued to claw at him, each drop of his blood euphoric to them.

[Pierce]

A sharp whistle cut through the cultists’ jubilation.

Time seemed to freeze as one of the cultists’ suddenly relented in their attacks, confused by the abrupt pause the two others turned towards them. Only to see them stumble, gripping their body as if they had been punched in the stomach. Slowly, he removed his clawed hands, revealing a fist-sized tunnel of blood and organs.

The cultist looked to his two other comrades just as confused, before coughing blood and slumping over and dying.

That was the first life Tyrian had ever taken.

Markus was just as mind-boggled, but quickly took the opportunity to counter-attack, his years of Sentinel training driving him forwards.

“[RETRIBUTION]!” He screamed, his hand stretched outwards. A fist of pure holy light shot forwards, slamming into one of the still stunned cultists sending them tumbling into the brush behind.

The final cultist snapped out of their stupor, the cackling demeanor stripped from their lips as their face turned to a disgusting scowl.

“GHLLRAAAH” They screamed in ghoulish rage, clawing multiple vorpal blades at Markus with rabid ferocity,

He sucked in a breath, knowing full well he couldn’t block the incoming attacks.

“[Wall]” A voice called out from behind him, but he was too preoccupied staring death in its face to turn.

Yet, just before the dark energy was about to reach him, a translucent wall of energy formed in front of him.

The vorpal blades smashed into the glass-like structure with hammering force, but amazingly the wall held strong, with only a minor fracture spreading across its surface.

A figure stepped forwards next to Markus, sending a whipping hand-sign towards the cultist.

“[Push]”

A full Orb burned away from Tyrian’s Capacity, the strain in his hand threatening to tear apart his muscles as a shockwave of force blasted towards the cultist.

They screamed, putting both hands in front of them desperately conjuring a blanket of shadows to protect themselves.

It was too late, as the shockwave traveled across the clearing in the blink of an eye — ripping the half-formed shadowy energy apart like tofu before doing the same to the cultist.

Their body was ripped in two halves, crumpling into a grotesque mess of blood and viscera.

Markus could only mumble at the sudden gruesome execution, before turning to see his savior.

It was a young boy, only as tall as his lower chest. With scraggly dark hair and a farmers skin tone. The boys’ silver eyes stared at the destruction wrought by his own hands, unable to tear his eyes away from the scene.

“Tyrian?” Markus whispered, as if it was impossible.

The young boy could only give him a meek smile before promptly turning away and vomiting.