Winter on the Isle of Spirits, seven years ago…
Every year, without fail, the final days of Last Seed ushering in the dawn of spring are always the coldest – the land buried beneath an unbroken expanse of snow.
Winter is a time of respite for the Order of Selene. With the land and sea alike frozen over, few dare to venture to the Isle of Spirits, Light’s Hope, or the Chantry of Eternal Light. The world grows still… wrapped in ice and silence.
Thus, when a lone Paladin arrived at the Chantry’s gates in the dead of night, clad in a blood-red shroud and bearing a massive silver claymore on her back, she was an anomaly – a bloody omen painted in stark contrast against the pristine snow.
The paladins and healers on guard duty stiffened at the sight, hands poised for their blades and staves, wariness creeping into their expressions. As they recoiled, she raised her head, golden eyes staring back at them through the fractured slits of a silver mask. And they wondered:
“Who is she?”
The question lingered, unspoken… even as their gazes shifted to the small figure cradled in her arms – a petite, Nameless Girl with short purple hair, her face marred by a scar running across her left eye. She was no older than ten winters, wrapped in snow-dampened blankets, her breath shallow but steady in deep slumber. And the very air around her felt… wrong. The taint of dark magic clung to her like a second skin, a whisper of something unnatural that had no place on holy ground. And as they beheld her, they wondered:
“Who is she?”
Were it not for the distinct sharpness of the Paladin’s golden eyes – luminescent and piercing – they might have taken her for a Monster clad in armour, perhaps even a Demon – a nightmarish embodiment of the evil they had been training and studying to fight and slay. Even so, they hesitated, barring her path out of instinct… until she drew aside the folds of her crimson cloak. There, against the dark fabric of her armour, gleamed the Executor’s Sigil.
When they saw it… they fell silent and dutifully stepped aside. As she walked past them, some bowed in reverence while others averted their eyes as if burned by the weight of her presence. She allowed herself the ghost of a smile, her colourless, cracked lips barely curling.
Word of her return spread like wildfire through the cloistered halls of the Chantry of Eternal Light. By the time she reached the courtyard, a crowd had gathered – paladins and healers alike, many still in their bedclothes, drawn from their quarters by murmurs of a legend come to life.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd as they exchanged bewildered glances, their whispers of her barely contained. For years, she had been nothing more than a rumour, a name spoken in hushed tones, a myth to those who trained within these sacred walls. And yet, here she was in the flesh – Lady Claire Silverlight, the Executor of the Order of Selene.
Like the sentries at the gate, they also wondered about the girl she carried and the shadowy taint that clung to her. Some healers – the more senior among them – stepped forward, offering their aid to cleanse the darkness entwined with the Nameless Girl’s essence.
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But Claire refused, not out of pride or mistrust. She was grateful – deeply so – that the Order’s compassion had not dimmed in her absence. But she knew, in her heart of hearts, only one person could save the child from her ailment.
The Ecclesiarch of the Order of Selene – Lady Iris Escaflowne. The very same woman who had once been her Healer, just as Claire had once been her Executor – her Paladin.
For this alone, she had braved the elements, traversing land and sea alike, clinging to the fragile desire that a miracle might yet be wrought. She fervently hoped that time had not already slipped beyond her grasp.
As Claire ascended the stone steps leading to the Ecclesiarch’s office, the paladins and healers following her fell into solemn reverence. Some knelt; others murmured quiet prayers. She passed them in silence, the weight of their gazes pressing upon her shoulders, neither comforting nor burdensome – merely a reminder of all she had left behind.
Inside, the antechamber was warm and well-lit, the golden glow of candles casting a soft radiance over fur carpets. Servants moved with hushed efficiency, not a word spoken as they stepped aside to let her through. Had they been expecting her?
At last, Claire stood before the grand, ornate doors of the Ecclesiarch’s office. They parted without resistance, revealing a familiar sight – the Ecclesiarch, still awake. She had always had a penchant for working late, night after night. Once, years ago… Claire had been part of those long hours, watching over her as her guardian and working alongside her as a peer to maintain and expand the living knowledge of the Akashic Record for the betterment of all healers and paladins of their holy Order.
“Iris.”
At the sound of her name, the Ecclesiarch looked at her and the Nameless Girl, sharp golden eyes assessing, measuring. Then, with a curt nod, she gestured towards a nearby couch.
“Lay her down. We begin at once.”
No hesitation. No pleasantries. Only purpose. For Claire, it was the best reception she could hope for after all that had passed between them.
“Of course. Thank you for this.”
She stepped forward with care, lowering the Nameless Girl onto the cushions. As she unwrapped the blankets, delicate limbs were revealed – skin far too pale beneath the dim light, fragile as if the weight of the world might shatter her into a thousand pieces.
“I did what I could to keep her alive and ward off the darkness,” Claire murmured, her voice quieter now. “But only you can break the curse on her soul. Please, old friend.”
Iris did not reply. Instead, she turned her gaze upon the child, her expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet breath… she lifted a hand, and the great tome beside her – Apocalypse, the living magical codex born from the light of the Akashic Record itself – flared to life, its gilded pages shimmering as golden light pulsed outward.
Claire stepped back, watching as Iris channelled Dispel Magic – a golden vortex spiralling from her hands, its radiance bathing the child’s frail form. Apocalypse, ever the conduit of her will, anchored itself to the floor with an overwhelming cascade of pages. As the spell wove through the air, the ancient tome absorbed the corruption that clung to the girl like a parasitic wraith, grounding it within the endless depths of its holy pages.
In the face of oblivion, the darkness did not surrender easily. It fought back with all its might, writhing in defiance, its tendrils of shadow slithering across the floor like the remnants of a collapsing nightmare, the dying throes of a parasite desperate to survive.
But Iris did not falter – her focus was absolute, her movements precise, every gesture steeped in skill and grace as she channelled Dispel Magic, the power of Apocalypse amplifying her already considerable magical prowess. Mana flowed through her like a steady river, weaving the holy magic of the Order of Selene in a desperate bid to save the Nameless Girl’s life.
Instinctively, Claire's hands came together in silent supplication – a reflex, a prayer – something she had not done in years.
“Rinnah, if ever you listen… let it not be too late.”
Outside, snow continued to fall. But somewhere, beyond the veil of winter… dawn was waiting.