The walls were converging in on Cestmir – signs of his dwindling influence as the hierarchy damned all formal channels to the royal court, forcing the tributary rivers of information through layers of bureaucracy as the church further distanced the queen from her administration. And in place of the queen’s royal seal was Davos’ crest upon the indented red wax.

The partisan tides intensified as news of Pragian’s defeat compounded the desecration of Sir Tristan and Castell’s estates under the muck of anti-pagan rhetoric. A rhetoric that was soon to be cast upon Cestmir, as he contemplated the next steps while inspecting the overflowing jails beneath the Vasierian barracks. The cells of which were filled with the religiously persecuted and opposing political factions. Their numbers far exceeded those of the truly thieving and criminal.

It was a hard realization to grasp for a servant of the crown and its people. One warranting deep contemplation, as every instinct and interpretation challenged what it meant to serve. His inflexion point came from the scribbles of a condemned priest from the Church of Saints and the Divine Spirit. His words read, ‘Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.’

Its message resonated through the months of maneuvering and planning. Every risk was calculated, loyalties strained, and resolve tested. Till the day of reckoning, as he whispered the priest’s words once more, while he stood inside the city catacombs. Where skull-lined walls built the foundations of the castle underbelly – their testament to past atrocities told by names unmarked; their stories of gradual wind turned torrential storms and no safe harbor willing to grant refuge.

It was a fate he would not permit himself, nor those he swore to protect.

The footsteps approached in the hundreds. They were descendants of prominent but vulnerable houses. Mostly those who lacked the funds to afford sanctuary offshore. Their evacuation was orchestrated with the precision of a skilled quartermaster, and safe passage was offered to all who would be embroiled in the night’s forthcoming uprising. However, it wouldn’t be enough, for Cestmir, the leader of the uprising, could only reach so far, due to the guilt weighing heavy upon his conscience, and knowing the reprisals yet to be inflicted upon those he could not save.

It was hours till dawn, and the underground caravans continued to trickle in. Each equally deserving of rescue, but none held so heavily on Casmir’s conscience than Gideon.

The deaf priest was more than willing to rid himself of the church’s lies and the claustrophobic confines of Vasier’s religious ministry.

It was a sentiment shared with Cestmir, who saw Gideon’s wellbeing as his redemption for Venessa, the only cause left he still believed in. Though saving her brother was well within his appetite for risk and difficulty, the daughter was another matter. One he could not save, merely break free from the deceptive chains of Davos and the bishop. Though out manned, they were not ill prepared. Enough for a betting man who possessed a strong stomach and sturdy spine. For in tight times, the best laid plans granted you the first blow, but from then on out, it was a fight for your life.

The planning for which continued to percolate in Cestmir’s mind as he scraped dust from the floors with an eye to the many interlocking passages. Until the running commentary of Gideon sparked relief that their efforts were not in vain.

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The guards finally hurried Gideon through the catacombs with fearful urgency, and his constant jabbering made the ten feet of ground seem insufficient to insulate them from the sleeping populous above. All the while, alchemists fixed tinder into barrels of Greek fire intended to close off their escape.

With Gideon’s arrival, Cestmir grabbed his rear-guard, ready to part ways on their divergent destinies. ‘What of the diversionary forces?’

‘They are ready and awaiting your orders. The flame is lit, and the night is quiet.

‘This is it then. God speed,’ said Cestmir. The adrenaline made young spirits of the old dogs, and he embraced his brother at arms with a firm two-second bear hug.

‘I’ll meet you in the afterlife.’

‘Live true, die old, my friend,’ said Cestmir.

Their parting gesture quickly shifted to collective concern as a rush of cold air ripped through the narrow passage. A haunting presence permeated the catacombs, to a mysterious glowing, red-eyed figure in the far distance. Like a dimly lit shadow of an unarmed man, staring at them, it said nothing, bar the heavy breathing of a psychotic being ready to explode.

‘They’ve found us. Run. We’ll cover your exit,’ said the guard. He then pushed Cestmir towards the escape while he and the remaining few held tight in phalanx form.

All braced as the being’s fast-footed approach preceded the extinguishing of wall-mounted torches. And then one by one, they accelerated to their positions.

With a wide-eyed desperation, Cestmir threw his torch at the stockpiled barrels, hoping for an immediate ignition, which then fell flat. Sparks amounted to nothing bar spreading ambers harmlessly across the floor, leaving him no other options than to sprint for the exit. It was, however, a pace best described as a tree-legged jog for old legs more conditioned for the brace than the run. Yet it was enough to ensure he rounded the corner before a kinetic shockwave turned his rear guardsmen to projectiles, like a rag doll to the wall.

Their shattered shields were like peddles to the mysterious figure that strolled barefooted through their remains, immune to the splinters and shards. And then the stalking figure turned the corner to see the scampering quartermaster and the glowing purple miasma: Cestmir’s portal escape. With jolting calf pumps, it wound up for the chase.

Finally, floating fumes of Greek fire ignited, sending fire and destruction through the collapsing catacombs that all but consumed the red-eyed being, who collided with the adjoining wall, and yet it saved itself via a protective magical sphere that with the surrounding flame made visible the bishop’s blind monk. A superhuman creature of manic rage and glowing red eyes that pierced the black ink smudged fabric.

The red-eyed monk, having survived the explosion, then braced itself with wide footing and outstretched arms. And its focus turned inward to an unstable force that rippled through a distorted void until finally igniting into a discolored orb. An orb that when squeezed between two handheld plates of magical energy burst into a slow-moving laser, which veered randomly around a central axis, until it eventually made contact upon Cestmir’s back armor.

The impact induced a percussive whiplash through Cestmir’s spinal column, rendering him near paralyzed and barely conscious as he crawled towards the disorientating haze of the purple light and outstretched hand of the returning Gideon. The queen’s uncle wrenched Cestmir’s limp body through the portal, making it through in time for them to witness the haunting figure of the red-eyed monk unable to make the crossing.

The red-eyed monk then resorted to indiscriminate jabs at the pagan construct, only to be repulsed against an opposing force that crunched knuckles and strained wrists.

While in the background, another dark figure lingered among the surrounding flames. A ghostly creature with the same glowing red eyes.

The bishop’s demon, Id, was staring back at Cestmir as it spoke with a hoarse voice,

‘Run, hide, die.’