For a sermon to be so pathetically unremarkable that even the devout Margery Silverwither grew bored was nothing short of incredible.

To surrender one’s attention to a man like Pontiff Borm required a brain fit to tolerate ineptitude on a cosmic scale. He was little more than a great oaf, draped in white and gold, the tall and ornate headdress crooked on his block of a head. He intoned from the Holy Writ with a distance that was impressive all on its own, grubby sausages for fingers cracking the old pages, meaty triple-chinned face drenched in sweat, unfocused beads for eyes so noncommittal that Margery had to wonder if his brain had shut off. An absolute disgrace of divine service.

Already, Margery was regretting having moved to Gransmede.

She looked to the statue of the All-Mother. White marble in the shape of a woman with an intricate urn clutched to her naked breast, her eyes pupilless yet all-seeing. She was tall, mighty, and tempted the thought that She could come to life at any moment and shock the congregation. The twelve Acolytes, draped in white robes, stood at attention at the sides of the statue. Ascended by the Pontiff himself, they were designated as the most faithful preachers of the All-Mother’s great teachings. Some shuffled their feet, others were begrudgingly attentive, and the rest managed to look riveted by the pontiff somehow. Margery was finding the great structure of the church a much more arresting distraction.

The pontiff’s soulless voice bounced off the big dark walls of the House of Penta, echoing far into the high ceiling. Margery could almost see the echoes as they ricocheted off the cresting archways, circling the room from high above. Stained glass windows expressed a myriad of colors, dim light peeking through, failing to reveal the painted ceiling no matter how much she squinted. Was it like the one back home, showing the stars, moons, suns, and all else lying beyond the sky? Was it a painting of the All-Mother, arms outstretched as she looked down on Her children with omniscient wisdom?

From her seat, the tall stands built on a higher floor of the church, overseeing the podium and benches banked out below, the world below wasn’t as impressive. The smallfolk, all dressed in customary white, filled up the seats. Parents rocked their babies, children tried to scurry off and were scolded to sit still, elderly whispered to one another or listened with rapt attention. Skins of all colors created an assemblage of potential cultures, potential faiths, all abandoned in favor of the All-Mother. In favor of the true God. These people were beings of the flesh, tethered to the sins of self-indulgence, pride, and temptation. To them, the Pontiff was a holy being, a man recognized by God in a way most could only dream of.

But those were human standards.

There was a reason the seats of the Witches, Margery’s seat, stood higher than even the pontiff. They were the beings closest to God, and appropriately, watched over the feeble and flawed humans. Higher than them. Wiser, stronger, better. That was the simple, unchangeable truth of things.

Margery sat upright, adjusted her cowl, as if that might help her focus, and sniffed at the air. Cold and chalky—the smell of age and history, of a church still standing after three hundred years. She surrendered her remaining willpower to the rest of the sermon, and time proved merciful as Borm finally closed the book with a prayer. “Through our deepest despair and our darkest hours, may The Mother continue to bless us,” he garbled.

The congregation echoed his last line, followed by a sweep of bowing heads, a chorus of rising bodies, then a shuffling mass toward the exit. Two knights pushed the doors open, groaning and straining against their towering weight. Red and orange light spilling inside.

“That was the most pathetic service I’ve ever had the displeasure of sitting through,” Margery grumbled as she watched the fat pontiff waddle away like a stuffed penguin, Acolytes trailing after him like lost chicks. “What imbecile appointed this fool?”

“Doesn’t sound too different from home to me,” Jessine said, voice high and bubbly like she was in a constant state of excitement. Her big and bright green eyes shined like polished jewels.

Margery gave her a flat look. “Don’t pretend you were paying attention.” She ignored her scathing hypocrisy.

“I do pay attention, normally. What’s your excuse? It's a mad world indeed when you can’t even pay attention during service.” She cupped Margery’s cheeks playfully. “Are you my real sister? Not some fleshwitch who stole these little pink cheeks?”

Jessine didn’t bother to hide her laughter, ignoring the stares of the other Witches as they scooted out of their seats. Did she have no respect for her position? What would the common folk think when they heard her piggish squealing of a laugh? “Marge, you really don’t need to be so high-strung,” Jessine traced folds of Margery’s crown plait with her finger. “You poor thing. You wound your hair so tight that it’s squeezing your brain!”

“I am using every fiber of my being to not hurt you.” Margery swiped the hand away. She should have known it wouldn’t discourage her.

“Dear me, Margie, would you harm your poor and fragile sister?”

“It is under incredible consideration.”

“Oh, the savagery! What will I tell Mother?” Jessine threw her hand across her forehead. “Poor Jessine, heartbroken and under the threat of death, seeks refuge in a faraway land to escape the cruel mistreatment of her family. It’s poetry, Margery. I know, I know, hold your applause. I’m too much, I know it!”

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Margery huffed as Jessine continued to make a fool of herself. She was as much of a handful as ever, even after two years apart, but she was the only family nearby for a while. The only family Margery was actually happy to see.

“You’re headed to the guild now?” Jessine said. “Did you bring your transcripts?”

“I had a messenger deliver it to the guild before I met my escort,” Margery said, nodding toward the church exit, where an armored man in a blue cloak stood at attention. Ser Duncan, if she remembered correctly. “I’ll come see you after I’ve met the master and settled into my house.”

“Excited?”

Margery wouldn’t have called it that. Excitement was for children. She was driven, compelled, hungry to carve out her long-awaited destiny. Margery’s gaze strayed to the golden button that held her sister’s cowl closed. A shimmering engraving of a phoenix with its giant wings tucked and chin raised high, its neck festooned with long feathers. The family crest. Their family crest. But when Margery looked at the button of her own cowl, twisted it between thumb and forefinger, she did not see gold or a phoenix. She did not have the family crest.

It was the whole reason she was going to join the House of Heroes, despite how completely unsuitable for a woman of her standing. It was a place where warriors were paid to risk their lives on dangerous missions—fighting monsters, stopping criminals—to protect the people. An honorable job in its own right, worth even Margery’s respect. In some ways, she was curious, she’d grown up reading stories of famous and historic faces, but she wasn’t like them and wouldn’t pretend to be. The guild was a means, a stepping stone toward her real future. She was not here to be a hero.

She was here to be the hero.

“I wish I could say I’m excited for you. Forgive me if I’m not exactly eager to hear that you got yourself eaten by a behemoth,” Jessine said. It was a joke, perhaps, or an attempt at one. “But I digress. You’ve been doing your counting?”

Margery frowned. “Yes.”

“No incidents?”

“Jessine,” Margery stopped her. “This is hardly what I need right now.”

Jessine was quiet for a moment, and for all the courage it took for Margery to command her older sister, it took considerably more to look her in the eye afterward. Unhappy memories came flooding back, days long past, but the echoes lingered, like they always did. Jessine reached over and wrapped her arms around Margery’s shoulders, giving her a hard squeeze, a gentle rub. “If things get bad, you can always come talk to me. Understand?”

There’d be no point, is what Margery wanted to say. No amount of weeping and wailing would help anyone, herself least of all, but telling that to Jessine would be akin to tying her feet to stones and pushing her into the sea. “I understand. Go, I need a moment to pray.”

She watched Jessine leave, all the way until she’d faded out beyond the doors, and Margery was all alone in the church. Only then did Margery rub her forehead.

She stayed longer than most at the church, though she wasn’t used to the size of this one. She stared once more at the All-Mother statue, at the urn where her great powers lay, at the inviting hand, palm up, fingers gently curled as if to cradle a butterfly. “Don’t be afraid,” She seemed to say, “Come, and I shall lead you to unending prosperity.”

Margery bowed her head, fingers clasped together as she closed her eyes. If she opened them again, would she find her God materialized before her? She often wondered that, and craved for the day She appeared and told her the truth of her teachings. If only it could be that easy.

"All-knowing and all-powerful Mother, please grant me your courage and strength in these trying times,” Margery whispered. "To carry out your will is my greatest wish. Please guide me, your humble servant, to the light and your eternal glory.”

The sun started to vanish over the buildings past the Penta’s doors, the crisp orange light settling in the skyline and peeking through the church’s great windows. The light touched her skin—warm, but fleeting. Dancing slowly across her flesh. Soon, it would be gone. The sun would vanish and night would arrive.

The Darkness would arrive.

She could feel it in the air, like impending clouds forewarning the rain. Devils slithering about, licking their lips, whispering lies and curses gone unheard by all but herself. They’d shown her a purpose—God’s purpose. People could say what they wanted. “The Darkness isn’t coming, you’re an idiot, you’re crazy.” She’d let the fools believe that.

But they’d see. They’d all see.

Margery snatched up her staff which lay on the bench next to her. A winding strongbark staff, knotting itself at the top around a flat wooden head. Just having it felt comforting, safe, even if she knew those very things would become rare from there on. Margery scooted out of the benches, sandals scuffing on the stone steps on her way down. From a seat with God to the land of the imperfect—one might have considered it an insult.

Ser Duncan dipped his head as she approached him, the fiery blue plume on top of his bear-head helmet slipping smoothly down, eventide light showering across his gold-and-silver armor. A blue cape was draped over his shoulders, the tail brushing the dark floor. A knight of the King’s Regiment. To send anything less than the best protection would be completely unthinkable and would not go ignored by the Witchwood. She might have requested a carriage, but walking gave her the benefit of getting familiar with the area. She was going to live here now, after all. "My lady, are you ready to go?"

Margery nodded at him without so much as a word, waited for him to take the lead, and stayed close. With the towering doors of the church left behind, they returned to the streets of Gransmede, capital city of the Kingdom of Sanse.