In the very heart of a city there was a cathedral.

Glare watched as the sun rose high, high over its gilded, marble spires. He watched as it glinted and refracted off the many arcs and arches that made up its gothic infrastructure. He admired the panoply of agate angels and chirping seraphs that cavorted gaily upon and around its towers, shaped from sculpted stone and adorned with precious metals. It was a work of true beauty, a shining emblem of the Faith of the Holy Triumvirate.

The cathedral was massive. Its tallest towers scraped the sky, reaching hundreds of feet into the air. Its main gate, a behemoth of gold and steel, could have accommodated ten carriages side by side, and five stacked on top of one another. Beholding it from afar made one wonder how mundane humanity might have ever produced such a vast monument. And indeed, mundanes had nothing at all to do with its construction.

The cathedral was built not by humans, but by the Gods’ own chosen.

Legions of Blessed architects, imported from Old Europe, toiled for nearly twenty years in ages past to construct this wonder of the West. An eternal reminder to the Cells of the Faith’s power and glory, and through it, of Patrusc’s as well.

The cathedral, like the city which grew around it, was named Alexandria, after the Grey Knight of old. It was one of only two such marvels on the Earth, a sister to the megastructure across the eastern sea, upon which Pope Metatron I presided over Everlasting Rome.

Alexandria and Eidolon. Two churches, named after the two benevolent Gods of the Holy Triumvirate. Two seats of the Faith. The third God didn’t get one. Traitors should always be remembered, but never honored.

On the very front of the church, three massive statues were immortalized in the marble. One for each of the Holy Triumvirate. Their size was as gargantuan in death as their prestige had been in life, standing half the height of the cathedral itself.

Grey Knight Alexandria’s visage was covered by her smooth metal visor, expression impossible to determine, but her stance was proud and stoic. Her humble longsword rested easily upon her hip.

Eidolon, the High Priest, took center stage. As he should. Eidolon was the one who’d saved the world, granted Blessings to mundane humanity, managed to imprison the Warrior even after the Lord of Light’s betrayal. His face, too, was covered by a mask, but this one displayed two rectangular slits for eyes, and three to form a stern mouth. He carried no weapons, for he needed none. His power was over existence itself.

Legend, once the Lord of Light, was represented on the left. The fallen angel wore a sadistic grin, halo atop his head bursting into infernal flames. He was a devil, a dark God who’d struck a deal with the Warrior just before the uprising, becoming the Lord of Lies and forsaking his own people for power. He’d been responsible for the Collapse, and with Alexandria and Eidolon dead, he’d nearly wiped humanity off the face of the earth before being defeated.

Even now, there were those who claimed that Legend never died, twisted power resurrecting him in the form of Beelzebub, the Vile Titan. Others proselytized that he now reigned in Hell, directing all the Titans from beyond, ever awaiting his true master’s return.

Each of the Holy Triumvirate represented a key facet of the Faith. The Grey Knight stood for chivalry, honor, and duty. The High Priest embodied piety, power, and sacrifice. But the Lord of Lies stood only as a solemn memento of the darkness hidden deep within the hearts of men. He reminded all Blessed of just how easy it was to fall, and of just how horrifying the consequences of lost faith could be.

The bell on the cathedral’s main clock tower chimed once, twice, signaling the beginning of the day’s Grace, and rousing Glare from his contemplation. He closed his eyes, letting the morning sun’s cleansing light wash over him in an awesome wave, warm and nourishing and safe.

Unlike most, prolonged exposure to the star’s light only made Glare stronger. It empowered his Blessing, charging it. Photo Emission glowed within him, filling him with vigor and vitality. He could have stayed like this for hours. But he was expected within the cathedral below.

Opening his eyes, Glare called upon his Blessing, allowing white light to suffuse his form, channeling from his chest down to his feet, where it burst forth, propelling him upwards. Smoothly, he ascended into the air, and rocketed across the city, soaring over the buildings spread out below like a divine flare.

He laughed, blond hair tousled by the wind, blue eyes gleaming–

with unshed tears as its sharp currents stung them. He couldn’t let them show, not now, or he wouldn’t be taken flying again. And he loved flying so much, so much. It made him feel like he was a hero too. Just like Dad.

He giggled as he stretched out his tiny arms, playing with the eddies that rushed past, letting them stretch and pull him by the palms. A warm, full, pleasant laugh echoed his own from behind. He turned to look at the one holding him aloft, carrying him through the sky. A brilliant blue light dazzled him, but he fought against it.

He wanted to see their face, he needed to see their face, he needed to see their face or the memory would be over, and he never would again, please PLEASE PLEASE–

Glare heaved as he returned to the present, spiraling madly through the sky, thousands of feet up, far higher than he should have been. In a flash of radiance, he halted all momentum and gulped huge breaths in an attempt to recollect himself.

That was a bad one. That was a really, really bad one.

He’d suffered the memories all his life, ever since he was old enough to remember. Random scenes that repeated themselves, short snippets of a life he’d never know, the one he’d had before the Coterie found him in cryo. Visions that came and went ephemerally, but he hadn’t had one that real, that profound in years, almost decades.

He frowned. An omen, or mere coincidence? He shook his head. Perhaps Father Ian would be able to offer guidance. A sense of foreboding growing within his chest, he turned downwards, making for the cathedral with haste.

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The great gilded gate stood open, massive doors swung wide to allow the midday light to illuminate stained glass windows the size of ten men. The church’s nave was filled to the brim with people, mostly mundane, all in some manner or other of disrepair.

The weak, the old, and the sickly formed columns so long they spread far outside of even the giant cathedral itself, winding through the streets and alleys of the city that surrounded it.

For Cell Pastrusc, though serving as both the head of the Faith in the west and the headquarters of the Inquisition, was first and foremost a house of healers. Blessed specialized in regeneration, medicinal therapy and manufacture, and the treatment and combat of disease gathered here.

And every Saturday and Sunday, the cathedral’s doors were opened to the public.

Blessed dressed in the white and gold colors of the Faith flitted about ceaselessly, tirelessly administering respite to the throng. Most of the time, after brief consultation, the crowd goers would be sent away, hale and healthy. Every now and again, though, the Blessed would sigh, shake their heads, and direct a poor soul to the cathedral’s altar.

There, in the very heart of Alexandria’s Cathedral, sat Grace.

His throne was a humble one, much at odds with its surroundings. It was merely the size of an average man, and made of mundane oak, which had weathered and grown crooked over the years. Grace didn’t mind, though. If anything, Glare thought, the Cardinal was embarrassed by his surroundings.

The Cell Head of Patrusc was an old man.

Grace wasn’t an Immortal, despite his position. And he’d lived for a very long time. His hair had fallen out in most places, leaving him only a scruff of grey around the edges of his head. His skin was deep, crinkled, and leathery. His arms looked thin and frail.

But his warm brown eyes gleamed with centuries of experience, and shone with such kindness and purity that they never failed to stir a great reverence in Glare. The sickest and most disabled, upon arriving before him, would kneel in reverence, and Grace would lay his hands upon them.

Then they would be healed.

There’d be no pomp or circumstance. No great and gaudy flash of light, no song of trumpets blaring. That wasn’t his nature. Grace didn’t produce miracles for money, or fame, or respect. He didn’t request conversion prior to treatment. He didn’t require piety, he didn’t demand supplication.

The Cardinal helped people because it was the right thing to do. And Glare would serve him gladly until his dying day.

Glare twirled low over the crowd, drawing gasps and exclamations from mundane humans and Blessed alike, before falling from the air and to one knee fluidly before the ancient Cell Head.

“Lord Patrusc,” he said, empowered voice echoing mightily throughout the colossal nave. “Your faithful servant returns.”

Grace raised himself from his wooden throne, and walked solemnly over to Glare. He paused before his servant’s form and frowned down at him from on high.

Then the corners of his mouth twitched, and he chuckled. Glare beamed back up at him, a wide smile on his face.

Ian Patrusc drew Glare, his son in all but blood, up to his feet and wrapped him in a giant hug. Glare returned the gesture fiercely.

“Ooh, oh. Careful there, High Inquisitor. Despite my dashing looks, I’m afraid I’m not quite as sturdy as I once was. Any tighter and you’ll break my ribs. And then I’ll have to waste a Prayer on myself.”

Glare pulled away, still grinning broadly. “Come now, Cardinal. It wouldn’t be a waste. Priest, maybe a Prayer or two would finally fix that crooked back.”

“Don’t take the Priest’s name in vain,” Grace chided sternly, his wrinkled mouth twisting up in mirth all the same. Ian’s demeanor was genial, but Glare could make out tears creeping into the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, Caleb. Oh, my sweet, sweet boy.” Ian’s weathered, calloused hands caressed Caleb’s face, searching for features he recognized. It brought back bittersweet memories of a lowly reverend comforting a sobbing child.

“It’s, it’s so good to see you again, my boy. It’s been so long. Too long. How long…how long has it been, since I last saw your face? My apologies, the days tend to blur a bit when you get to be this old, hmmm. Now, it was just last spring, I thought…no, no, that’s not right. It was…” Grace hesitated, trailing off, muttering to himself.

“Five years to this day, Father Ian.” Caleb said, though his grin became a touch hollow. Grace stopped, and looked at him in astonishment, the many creases upon his face deepening with guilt.

“Five years…Gods above and below. And…and you were on the Frontlines the whole time?” He said, brow furrowing in confusion and anger. “No…no, that’s not right. That can’t be. No, they wouldn’t send a child to the Frontlines, to fight the Spawn, they wouldn’t…”

Caleb’s broad smile had frozen on his face. “The Metatron commands, Father, and we obey, don’t we? Besides, I wasn’t a child. I was sixteen when I left, remember?”

“Sixteen…yes. Yes…maybe. I think I do. Still, that’s–”

“And besides, I’m back now, aren’t I, Father?” Caleb cut in before the aging Cell Head could continue, grin revitalized with barely an effort. Faking it wasn’t hard.

He’d had five years of practice.

“Back…” Grace echoed, more confusion flitting across his expression, before it firmed into something unknowable to Caleb, but determined. “Yes. You are.”

“I am,” Caleb readily agreed, grateful that the delirium had passed. The Ian he remembered was just as aged, but his mind had always been as sharp as a blade. How much had changed in Caleb’s absence?

“Well. We have much to discuss.” Grace said, firmly. “The Faith has recalled you for good reason. We’ve received a number of troubling reports. I’ll go over them all with you in detail when we’re in private, but the long and short of it is this–we intend to send you to participate in the Agoge.”

Caleb started, surprised. “You want me to join the Coterie? Why? My place is here, with the Faith. With you, Father.”

Grace smiled, shaking his head. “You will always have a place here, with me, my boy.” His eyes hardened. “But the world is waking up. Factions are moving. Forces are mobilizing. Change is coming, my son. The Devoted grow restless within their roost in the Deathlands, taking bolder and bolder action across Europe. The Cells begin to tire of our presence in this land.”

Grace laid a hand on his shoulder. “The Faith needs allies, Caleb. Now, more than ever.”

He sighed. “I’ve heard the songs they sing of you, child. You’ve grown mighty in your absence. Mighty, indeed. But even you lack the strength for what is to come, I fear. You need knowledge. You need friends, whom you can truly trust. No one can fight evil alone. Even the High Priest had help. The Coterie can provide these things.”

Father Ian’s bottomless brown eyes fixed on him, the gaze of the one he worshipped above even the Triumvirate binding him to the spot.

“Join them, Caleb. Serve the Faith no longer in name, but in nature. A time of great upheaval is coming, and we must, all of us, be prepared.”