He couldn’t let the hooligans live. They would burn down the whole city. Nor could he let Hell’s army prevail. They would spread the infection, dooming the faithful and the damned alike.

As if to answer him, the wordless whispers ran through Verune’s mind, clearer than ever before. The pain broke as a feeling of power surged through his limbs.

He felt fluid trickling down his forearms.

Time seemed to slow.

Looking down, Verune saw something glistening and iridescent pooling in his sleeves, dripping onto the street. It shone in many colors, like liquid opal. For the briefest instant, Verune found himself back in the Imperial Palace, standing among Eustin’s brood, with the Sword in his hands, watching as an impossible creature stepped through a window in the air. Its flesh had been dribbling like candle-wax, glistening with that same iridescence now pooling on the street.

Then the vision ended, and Verune’s arms were as dry as could be. But the power remained.

He tried Eadric’s prayer once more.

“Aualen to Þe ground. Bowe in wurðscipe, ribaud monnes.”

The power within him answered the prayer’s call. Overhead the air quivered, as a presence blazed in Verune’s mind: the Angel’s invisible Light.

The Lassedite held his hands out to his sides, welcoming the descent of the hand of God.

The road cracked beneath an unseen weight. Everything in front of Verune was plastered onto the ground. The bodies quivered against the pavement. Ribs crunched; skulls popped. The incompressible was compressed. Bottles of alcohol yet to be thrown, bursting into flame, only for the fire to be smothered into nothing by the Angel’s unseen Light.

Then the miracle ended, and the power left Verune’s body. Everything fell silent, save for the roars of the flames on the brownstone on the other side of the street.

The fires there had grown wild.

Over the leaping flames, a woman screamed in pain.

A human scream.

With a gasp, Verune crumpled forward. He tried to move, but his body was in disarray. His limbs spasmed. Saliva dripped out of his mouth.

His nerves were raw fire. His belly was a cauldron of hunger and void.

Trembling—raising his head—Verune saw Simon hobble up the stairs.

He tried to call out Simon’s name, only to hawk up spit.

The cashier delved into the burning apartment complex.

No!

The first friend Verune had made in years was about to get himself killed.

Verune tried to use his powers—he prayed, he begged—but he could not. His burning nerves refused to obey anything but his hunger.

He needed to feed. Quickly.

“Simon!” he roared.

Verune crawled forward on dead, lagging limbs that hardly even moved. He dragged himself forward along the road. The rough pavement scraped wounds into his palms. The wounds didn’t bleed.

Craning his neck, Verune saw the foot of one of the monstrous corpses.

There!

The foot of a corpse.

Verune threw himself at it with everything he had, and for his reward, he landed face-first onto rotting flesh.

It smelled like Paradise.

And he ate, and ate, and ate. Bite, chew, swallow. Bite, chew, swallow.

His limbs stopped their trembling. His nerve-fire extinguished..

“No! No!!” A woman shrieked.

Verune lurched up. His lagging body obeyed him once more.

Verune saw Simon at the entrance of the brownstone, wrestling with a misshapen-looking woman.

“There’s no one there!” Simon yelled.

“Let go of me!” The woman flailed in his arms.

The building’s upper floor collapsed within its walls. Any unbroken windows shattered as flaming debris blasted outward through the glass.

Without hesitation, Verune called upon an ancient prayer: the prayer Enille had used, two thousand years ago, to stop Elpeck from burning to the ground.

“Wyrcanen sum regnscur, Halig Engel, Ic bawd Þe. Ic sceawian du sunneleoht. Gefeohten se fyr.”

Verune felt the power climax within him. He sensed the Angel’s unseen Light descend from Paradise—but nothing happened. A brief sputter flared in his mind; visible light flashed in front of him, blinding him, but then the energies collapsed, fading without consequence.

The brownstone’s second floor gave way.

Simon and the woman were about to be crushed.

Verune screamed. “Simon!”

And then, a miracle happened—only this time, it was Simon who called it.

Verune watched, slack-jawed as Simon leapt through the air in a tall arc, the woman still in his arms. The two of them crash-landed in the middle of the street, rolling over the pulverized bodies as they came to a stop.

Debris blasted out from the main entrance as the brownstone’s interior fully collapsed.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“No! No!” the woman screamed. Kicking and flailing, she knocked Simon off and then shoved him away with her arms. She stared at the ruined brownstone behind her, let out a shriek, and then turned back to Simon, raging and clawing. “You killed them! You killed them!”

Her voice was only half human. The other half was wailing woodwinds and brass. A dull emerald tail swung out behind her. Simon held up his claws, blocking her as best as he could.

“There was no one there!” he yelled.

Not wanting to risk overdrafting his power reserves, Verune ripped the leg he’d been feeding on off the corpse it once belonged to and stuffed the limb down his throat. For an instant, he felt like his gullet would burst, but then the limb dissolved into his flesh. His throat and chest tickled as his body drank up the leg.

“I could have saved them!” The woman howled. “I could—”

—On instinct, Verune conjured the Angel’s power. He didn’t even need the prayer’s words. It just happened, as if the miracle was an extension of his own mind.

In his mind’s eye, Verune watched an ethereal weight land on the woman. It was a smaller version of Eadric’s prayer. It didn’t harm her; it merely restrained her. She twisted and turned, trying to free herself, but to no avail. Holding his focus, Verune rose to his feet and stepped toward her.

The woman’s face was just like her voice: only half-human. The inhuman half swelled forward in a tumorous mass.

A snout.

It was riddled with muscle-rimmed holes. Green plumes huffed out with her words and breaths. Minute, dull emerald scales covered her snout, the same color as her tail. The other half of her face was almost lovely. A motherly face, proud, but strong, with sweeping wavy hair the color of rusted gold.

The inhuman half of her head was utterly bald.

She must have been beautiful once.

Her human eye wept inconsolably.

“That was my home!” She flung her arm back, pointing at the ruined brownstone. “My family was in there!” She stabbed a finger at Simon, barely able to move under Verune’s prayerful bindings “He wouldn’t let me get them! And now they’re gone!” She sobbed. “They’re gone—and I’m a monster! A hideous monster!”

“What is she talking about?” Verune demanded.

Simon stuck out his palms defensively, shaking his head. “There was no one there, your Holiness, I swear! There was no one there, but she refuses to believe it! She’s gone mad, I tell you, mad!”

Suddenly, the woman looked up and froze stiff. Her upper body trembled, and Verune couldn’t tell if it was her, or if it was from the pressure of the hand of God that was keeping her pinned down. But then his back began to burn, and the shock of the pain snapped him out of focus. The invisible Light’s presence evaporated from his thoughts.

Simon was up on what was left of his legs, claws at the ready. If it was anything like the first time, she’d probably try to gouge his eyes out.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t attack him at all. Instead, she sat up slowly, staring wide-eyed at the empty space between Simon and Verune.

“James?” she said. “Nancy?” Her voice broke. “D-Dayve?”

She wept tears of joy.

“Uh… what’s going on?” Simon asked.

“Are you blind!?” she said. She thrust her hand toward the empty space. “My husband and children are standing right there!”

Verune shook his head. “I see no one,” he said, softly.

But she seemed to disagree.

“It’s a miracle!” She was ecstatic. “It’s a miracle!”

Rising to her knees, she flung herself at the empty space, yelling as she fell flat on her face.

“Wh-What?” Shocked, she skittered back. “I… I don’t understand.” She shook her head, muttering in confusion. “I see you, too. But you’re not, you’re not—”

Verune shook his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. A buzzing sensation rattled in his head, similar to the lightheadedness from before. It was something in the woman’s voice—the inhuman half—in the quavering tones that resonated along with her words. The effect was… hypnotic. Even Simon began to stare.

Then, in between blinks, three figures flickered into being. They were grainy and gap-ridden; their presence was unstable. But they were there, talking and moving: a man, and two children: a daughter and a son. The kids were trying to wrap their arms around the woman. They were calling her “Mom”.

He caught the woman’s name on her husband’s lips: “Anne.”

The vision faded in and out along with their words, as if whatever was being transmitted wasn’t quite complete. They then faded altogether.

It seemed Anne’s talking was what kept them anchored in Verune’s awareness.

As Anne’s family faded, Verune heard the whispers once more. And, finally, he understood them. They were his own voice, scratching at the back of his thoughts. Verune’s eyes widened as he listened, for he knew it was the Angel speaking to him.

Verune made the Bond-sign as he fell to his knees. He was furious with himself. He’d made the simplest error of all: he’d forgotten to doubt his doubts.

I should have never doubted you, my Lord. Forgive my weakness. I will not fail you again.

Verune understood his mistake.

His horror was his mistake.

Ultimately, even a Lassedite was still a sinner. And sin was wicked. It was wickedness itself. It corrupted. It made good evil and evil good.

Verune understood that his vision of the spirits of Anne’s family was nothing less than a miracle. He knew the Angel must have arranged it, to steer him back onto his proper path.

To the wicked souls mired in sin, what could be more terrifying to behold than the truth of divine justice? That terror stoked their hatred of God. It made them ache with the pain they inflicted upon themselves for choosing to separate themselves from God.

These changelings guarded the spirits of the dead. The spirits of those who had been saved. They weren’t monsters. They couldn’t be. They were agents of God. And God made no evil; evil was but an absence of Divine Light.

In that moment, Verune understood that he, Anne, and Simon were only vile to his eyes because he was still on the path of sin. He hadn’t opened his heart. But now, he understood that they were beautiful. They were part of the Divine Plan. That made them beautiful. All creation was beautiful.

“Anne!” Verune said, ecstatic. “Anne!”

“H-How… how do you know my name?” Anne snapped to face him.

Verune reached his hand out to her. “I heard it from your husband. You have nothing to fear, Anne. I was afraid, too, but now, I see. Now, I see.” He smiled. “The Angel has shown me.”

“What?” Anne shook her head.

“We are the Chosen Blessèd,” Verune whispered, “and they,” he pointed at where Anne’s family had been standing, “they are the righteous. They are the saved. You are Blessèd,” he said, again. “We are Blessèd.”

“What are you talking about? I’m not Blessèd! I’m a monster. I’m—”

But Verune didn’t see her that way.

“—You’re not a monster,” he said. “You are a part of the Divine Plan. You—“

Verune brought his hand to his mouth as he gasped.

“A miracle!” He shouted. He looked at Anne, and then sprang to his feet.

Anne had changed right in front of him. Her dull emerald colors erupted in magnificent light. She shed her vile serpent skin, revealing luminous emerald scales underneath. A golden mane wafted behind her head.

“Magnificent…” Verune whispered.

She wasn’t becoming a monster. She was becoming a divine beast—an echo of the Hallowed Beast itself.

A warrior of God.

“One of the Blessèd…” Verune muttered. He stepped back.

“What is it, your Holiness?” Simon asked.

Verune turned to the cashier. “You can’t see—” only to stop and cover his mouth.

Simon, too, had changed. His scales were radiant and golden, like the fire of the very sun itself.

Verune reached to touch, but then stopped yet again as he saw himself.

He, too, glowed. Like Simon, his scales were golden and luminous. Numinous auras surrounded them all.

Simon stammered. “I see her family, but—”

—Verune blinked.

I can see it. He can’t.

Verune made the Bond-sign.

Anne and Simon stared at him incredulously.

“I understand why the Angel brought me to this era,” he said.

Verune turned to Anne, wishing she could see herself as he saw her. The false appearances had been swept away the instant he understood the mistake of his horror.

“You aren’t a monster, Anne. You are beautiful. What you are becoming…” He looked at his hands. “What we are becoming… it holds an even greater beauty than I could have ever imagined.” Gently, he cradled her half-snout in his hand.

Revulsion shot through Anne’s face. She slapped him and pulled away.

But Verune simply smiled.

It caught her off guard. Her expression dropped, suddenly flushed with guilt.

“It’s alright, Anne,” he said, tenderly. “I will guide you.” He turned to Simon. “You too, Simon.” He nodded. “I am certain of it now. The Blessèd are aspects of the Hallowed Beast Itself. We are being remade into warriors of God.” He smiled. “Your family is safe, Anne. They are saved.”

Verune looked up to the crescent Moon overhead. Shadows danced on the street as the city burned.

“We must find the other changelings… others of our kind. We have work to do. We have an army to build and souls to save. And we shall carry them to Paradise.”

Within him, the whispers seemed to smile.