SPEARHEAD
Smoke and burnt metal clawed at his senses, mingling with an acrid tang of asphalt that tore through his nostrils and throat. The noxious mixture pierced his lungs, suffocating him with a relentless, numbing pressure that made even drawing a single breath a struggle. Galahad's eyes were shut tight, a gash over his left eye swelling to keep it that way. His ringing ears intensified the assault on his other senses. Amidst the disorienting chaos, fragmented memories played out – the anguished cries of Sarah, the bone-chilling command from Narrus before the sickening snap of bones, and Atlas's realization that there would be no coming back. Amidst it all, a trivial thought fought for his attention: 'I need to shave.' As his knees buckled, his face met the cold embrace of snow. The battle was over. Galahad was victorious.
----
In the heart of Velnias, Fern slouched at her desk, shock etched into every crevice and fold of her face. Clutching the report, the young Verdan’s trembling hands betrayed her as she struggled to make sense of incomprehensible news. She combed through the text sentence by sentence, word by word, hoping to unearth an overlooked comma, word, or phrase that might alter the meaning of the telegram. She found none as she mouthed the words:
'Spearhead eradicated by a new Titan. Two survivors: Galahad, Latimer. The titan is characterized by its colossal size and many hands. It appears to have nullified the effects of our Life Contracts. All other souls lost. -Galahad'
The report's brevity, no more than half a sheet of paper, left Fern yearning for more details, for some shred of certainty. Her thoughts shifted to the calamitous nature of the events – a bi-yearly retreat turned catastrophe, an unforeseen encounter with a titan. She could already imagine the panic. Unfortunately for the entire Peninsula, it played out exactly how she imagined it.
Days later, Fern found herself walking along Velnias' Mainstreet, the bustling thoroughfare now tingled with an air of palpable tension as people made their way through the snow. The streets remained congested with traffic and vibrant lights, but a cautious hush had fallen upon them as if the city held its breath, waiting for the next disaster. No one dared honk as paper boys peddled various printings of grim headlines with a subdued sense of urgency. Variations of 'The Peninsula of Knowledge in Fear: A New Titan Wipes Spearhead,' '1921 marks the end. The Strongest Not Enough!' and 'Essence-Linked Crimes Surge After Spearhead Tragedy' littered the hands of the paper boys as they exchanged fear-mongering for coins and cash. It made her sick. Even her attempts at a more diplomatic spin couldn't quell the public's perception of the event. She couldn't even blame them. The whole Peninsula was feeling the effects of Spearhead's destruction.
Fern turned into another corner store, looking at empty shelf after empty shelf before sighing. There was no stock of anything anywhere. There hadn't been for days as everyone hoarded canned goods and whatever else they could get their hands on. All the good that would do. If a titan came rampaging through the city, it would hardly matter if you had three more cans of tuna, beans, or whatever else people ate.
"Excuse me," Fern inquired, her tone hopeful. "Do you know when your next shipment is coming in?" Fern turned to the store owner, her auburn hair brushing against pointed ears as she tried to meet his shaky gaze. The store owner, a man with dark bags under his eyes, flipped through his own newspaper. His portly, oversized stature dwarfed the chair he occupied. It should've given him an almost comical appearance, but instead, he seemed so small as he hunched over the counter.
He twisted his head to glance at Fern before returning to the newspaper, "If it doesn't get canceled, two days." It was curt but not impolite.
"Ah. I see. Thank you." Fern turned to leave, but the man's voice grumbled as she was about to pass the threshold back onto Main Street.
"Need anything set aside?" The man produced a pen and stared at the newspaper, ready to write anything down.
"Toothpaste or milk would be nice!" Fern beamed pleasantly. Food was a commodity for her. If she stayed in the sun long enough, she could survive the food drought, if not be miserable while she did. It was the one lucky part about being Verdan.
While Velnias struggled under the weight of uncertainty, reports painted a grim portrait of other major cities. Fear and unrest festered, threatening to plunge the entire Peninsula into chaos. Both fervent and desperate protests erupted like wildfires, casting a long shadow over the precarious calm people clung to. Dej Khov had worse food shortages, and the Inquisition there worried about an influx of undead due to starvation. Cholt was no better as the city's tinkers were getting antsy, and many started using their technology to turn to thievery. She had been working overtime routing Wardens teams to and fro, matching skill sets with the supernatural problems reported.
The other branches of The Wardens hadn't had to work this hard in years. Before, there was a pervasive mentality of "if it was important send Spearhead." and "Spearhead is the strongest. Might as well leave everything up to them."
'Yeah. This is what you get when you put all your eggs in one basket.' She chided the Warden's past over-reliance as she thought about its result: teams running around like headless chickens, the highest influx of contract usage in years, the highest number of civilian casualties, and the lowest number of resolved cases. It didn't help that there were also just more essence-related events.
There were the normal ones that happened naturally, like a random beam of essence from the cosmos reducing a village to a bunch of aberrations or the presence of elementals due to the improper disposal of the dead. If it was just those, everything would've been fine. The issue was that the cults were also becoming more active and daring. It all culminated in a chaotic maelstrom.
Glancing at her watch, Fern quickened her pace, her boots clicking against the pavement with a steady rhythm of urgency. The chill wind bit her cheeks, and she pulled her coat tighter around her. Crunching snow muffled her footsteps as she entered HQ, rode the elevator, and walked to her desk – all in silence.
Fern sorted through the request with practiced efficiency, her mind a whirlwind of considerations. Each priority designation felt like an additional weight on her shoulders, a reminder of the grim reality she faced. In her hands, she held lives, each reduced to no more than a half sheet of paper and a short description of the event and why it was a Warden issue rather than a private defense issue. How many had she condemned to death today by sorting them in the lower priority pile? Eighty? Two-Hundred? It was utilitarian. Her job was to do the greatest good. She hated it.
Amidst the organized chaos, a special request caught her attention – an appeal from the new Velnias Warden's Captain, Galahad himself. It was a two-parter; the first part, recruitment of new Wardens, was easy enough to approve. The second part was less excusable. The essence subsumption and communion request stared back at her from the half sheet of paper, its audacity nearly taking her breath away four times the amount of essence per week for the new team. She knew the desperation that drove it. She understood it. The Peninsula's urgent need for a new Spearhead was something she was seeing firsthand. Yet, she couldn't ignore the recklessness inherent in the proposal. While pumping them full of essence like this might get them a new spearhead for a few months, they'd all die within the next two years. She denied the request and sent it to the higher-ups.
The higher-ups, ever enigmatic and instructable, sent it back to Galahad. In a swift reversal, the request was stamped with an unequivocal
Request Status: 'Approved.'
THROWN
"Fight back" The words struck him, each one matching a blow more forceful than the last, but Bellamy only registered the pressure rather than any stinging sensation. He was a mountain of a man, 6'2", with the constitution of someone used to working in a steel mill, but tonight, he wasn't here to fight – he was here to play a part. The blows came hard and fast; steel-toed boots slammed into his ribs, and fists glanced off his jaw. To the untrained eye, it looked brutal, eight people standing in a circle, launching kicks meant to topple the man and smacks to the side when he stumbled. Blood dripped from a gash on his brow as he lost vision due to the sudden swelling. The blood seemed to freeze almost instantly, the biting cold and wind stealing the warmth from his body. Still, Bellamy felt nothing. His body was a tool, and he used it to sell the illusion of pain. He grimaced, snarled, and lowered his stance to protect his vital organs with the grace of a man getting jumped, all the while keeping his mind sharp and his movements deliberate.
As the goons continued their assault, Bellamy's eyes continued darting around, calculating. He spotted his opportunity when one of the attackers, a wiry thug with a sneer, leaned in too close. Bellamy took a half step back, letting the man's force carry him forward, wavering as he slipped on the ice. Before gravity could take him, Bellamy surged forward, fist raised high as he caught the man in the chest, spiking him into frost-covered concrete. Bellamy leapt on the thug, no longer sneering, and began to tear at coat and limb.
His goal wasn’t to hurt the scrawny fellow, just as their goal wasn't to hurt him, although this part had been off-script just a little bit. Bellamy enjoyed taking creative liberties where he could. Amid the tangle of limbs, he shoved his hand into the victim’s coat pocket, slipping the wallet he found there neatly into his sleeve. He had planned to disengage from the pile afterwards, but his timing was off – a punch smashed into his nose, knocking him off the man and leaving him flat on his back.
After that, the others descended upon him, a flurry of blows and kicks that he knew would bruise or tear muscle. Even though he wouldn't feel the pain, it still sucked for the next few days, his muscles would be tight, and his mobility would grow far worse. Many times before he found himself reaching up to a shelf only for his arm to resist him, much to his confusion.
The blows continued, with greater viciousness than what was appreciated for a solid minute before a voice rang out. "That's enough," the gang's leader, Viracio, called out. He flicked a lit cigar to the ground nearby like a prick. He stepped forward, smiling as he looked at the gathered assembly of workers huddled behind the open chain link gate. He bent down next to Bellamy, speaking in a low tone that wouldn't carry to the other factory workers, "They're pissing their pants man, you were worth every cent."
Bellamy grinned, blood pooling in his mouth and dripping from his nose. "Tell me that when the medical bill comes in."
Viracio laughed, rising up before winding back a kick of his own, which he let loose into the tall man's stomach. "Well then, I might as well get my hours worth. Regardless …"
The man trailed off as he straightened his suit and began speaking loud enough for the cowering workers to hear, "That's enough I think. I get it. Trust me, I do. You gotta look out for you and your own. But when you cross that picket line, you're hurtin' everyone. None of my boys here enjoyed this little beatdown we had to put on you. Isn't that right, boys?"
From the surrounding thugs, there was a chorus of grunts of agreement, although the wiry, not so sneering anymore goon, shot vicious glances at some of the workers, a nice touch, in Bellamy's opinion. Shame he brought his wallet to this little act.
"They don't like it one bit," Viracio continued with false sympathy. "And I don't like watching to make sure they don't skimp out on it either. Now you're a big man. That makes you lucky. Means that you'll still be up and about tomorrow or the next"
He let the threat hang in the air, not sparing a glance at the targets it was actually meant for. "And you're double lucky that I prefer to handle things with words. So that's what we're gonna do, and what you're going to do is not go into that factory tomorrow or next week, not until they've signed the contract."
Bellamy spat to the side, his voice raspy as he forced out, "You have a job for me then?" He didn't have to fake the rasp. Just because he couldn’t feel the beating didn’t mean his body hadn’t been put through the wringer.
Viracio chuckled, stepping forward. "Man, I've got people begging for work. Goods, info, cleaners, anything. I can barely keep up, and ain't none of them crossed that picket line, but you factory folk are hardy men. If you're serious, come see me at the Last Dance, and I'll see where we can set up a steel head like yourself."
Job almost done. Now, he just needed to wait for the final threat and be seen limping his way to the bar later that night. A respected steel worker, swallowing his pride and working for Viracio, is later seen walking out with an envelope of money that no one working in the slums or the current economy should reasonably be able to see. The man would likely see an increase in recruits and runners in the next few days due to the display. Maybe it'd backfire, maybe it'd be temporary, hell, maybe it wouldn't even work, but that wasn't his business. His business right now was to be a punching bag.
Viracio smiled a sickly sweet smile. "And remember, if you even think about crossing that line tomorrow, next week, anytime… You'd better get good at running. ‘Cuz if I see you again, it'll be the last time you use your legs."
Bellamy gave a short nod, blood trickling from his mouth. It didn't hurt – his body was numb – but he made sure to sell the act. Only after the nod did Viracio signal his men to disperse. One of the goons stepped back, patting his coat pockets. He frowned, realizing his wallet was missing. His eyes darted to the icy ground searching for his belonging as the rest of the goons walked off. The man opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp, dangerous glare from Viracio had him snap his mouth shut with such force Bellamy was convinced the man cracked a molar.
Only after they were gone did Bellamy shift onto his side and push himself to his feet before limping back to the other workers. Some rushed forward, catching him before he could fall forward. A chorus of "are you okays" and "damn man's" were thrown about. The foreman wore a heavy scowl on his face. Bellamy could hear him begin talking in low whispers to those around him, organizing … something. Bellamy shrugged. Whatever they did from here on out, it didn't exactly concern him, so instead, he grinned and let out a laugh before sliding the stolen wallet out from his sleeve, "got 'em back for the blows, though." Silence rippled out through the crowd of workers before it broke out into pockets of laughter. Some people looked worried. Others just laughed and clapped him on the back. With an order from the foreman an overturned apple box was brought over for Bellamy to rest on, and soon the cold yard was alight with the workers’ chatter.
The foreman found him after some time, in one hand he held a travel first aid kit and the other stuck out to greet him. "Sorry that happened to you, son. Let's get you patched up and taken home.”
Bellamy took the hand, recalling the foreman's name – Gregor – as the older man began patching him up. Despite his thinning hair and age, Gregor’s senses hadn’t dulled. His needlework was clean and quick, his wrinkled, veiny hands held Bellamy’s head with a strength that was almost shocking; Bellamy guessed that those old fists could dish a beating twice as bad as Viracio’s thugs. More than a few burn marks across his wrinkled arms – badges of honor from decades of molten steel and cut corners. With those marks, and the scent of grease masked by cheap tobacco, Gregor seemed almost a walking relic, plucked from the days where steel milling was honest work done by honest men who were rewarded with honest pay.
"I appreciate it," he responded coolly. The man said something else, but it all faded as Bellamy thumbed through the wallet. It was all he could do to distract himself from the sticky sensation the bandages left him with. The constant light pressure was an annoyance only heightened by the tightening of his face brought about by the stitches. He knew it was the best, but consequences be damned he’d rather just let it bleed. He turned his mind back to the wallet.
One week and two days. That's how much time he just bought himself with today's stunt. He allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk as the words finally registered. "Thanks for the offer, and for patching me up … I have some errands I have to run first".
The foreman extended his hand once more in farewell, "Will I see you tomorrow?" he asked, brow raised.
Bellamy hesitated, then clasped the offered hand. "We'll see." he spoke without looking Gregor in the eyes, a small flush of shame burning across his face that he pushed back down.
Gregor grunted, reaching into his coat. "Take this," he said, thrusting a dented flask into Bellamy's grip. "For the road. It's colder than a dragon's heart out here. Helps with the pain too".
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Bellamy almost smiled. He would've taken it if he had truly been hurt by Viracio's goons. If it hadn't just been a job for him. So, in the end, he unscrewed the lid for the barest hint of a swig, "Just a little for the road, but save the rest for your old bones."
Gregor's gaze lingered on the blood freezing on Bellamy's sleeve and shrugged, "Suit yourself, just be careful out there."
With one last goodbye, Bellamy limped down the street. The meat market wasn't far from here, and he was getting hungry. He breathed out, leaving no trace of mist in the biting cold – a dead giveaway to his undead nature if anyone was around to notice.
The meat markets weren't so much a centralized spot, but rather a series of unassuming stores littered throughout the city. Very few of the owners of the shops knew they were part of the market. It was mostly specific workers who came in during specific shifts that had what people like him needed.
The bell above the door jingled as he pushed it open, the sound almost cheerful against the grim backdrop of the slums. The shop was simple, unremarkable –shelves lined with canned goods, a glass counter at the back displaying cuts of meat. Behind it stood Kye, a stocky woman with arms like steel cables and a gaze that could cut through bone. A butcher through and through.
"Evenin' Kye," Bellamy said, his voice low but carrying an undertone of respect. He nodded towards the counter. "Business booming?"
Kye ignored his small talk, glancing him up and down, her expression unreadable, "Tough one ain't ya?"
Bellamy, for his part, didn't respond, just made sure the door was closed behind him before stepping closer. He leaned against the counter, his bulk casting shadows over the display case. "Any exotic cuts?"
The question was a formality but a necessary one. He'd never seen one firsthand, but everyone knew the stories of the Brinn – creatures that slipped into the skin of the living, inheriting memories and replacing them. Old wives' tales, maybe, but in the slums, even myths had teeth.
Kye's hands disappeared beneath the counter, no doubt resting on the shotgun she kept there. "Anything specific?"
"Something fired," Bellamy replied, the second part of this week's code.
With a grunt, Kye returned her hands from underneath the counter and slid open a nearby meat fridge, rifling through the packages.
"How much you got on you?"
Bellamay flipped through the ill-gotten wallet, "Looks like twelve Ord, an IOU for a lap dance at Penny's, and some business cards."
Kye snorted but stared at Bellamy expectantly.
"I'm good for eighty more Ord, though, I finished a job for Viracio, picking up the rest later tonight.
Kye said nothing but crossed her arms and considered Bellamy for a few moments. "Guess you haven't heard. Congregations in town. Prices are up, payment up front".
"Well," Bellamy began, "shit." It wasn't eloquent, but it was the only thought that cut through the haze of a growing frustration. Suddenly, his fortunate windfall had not just turned for the worse but dove straight for the sewers. He was broke, had less food than he thought, and now had to go into hiding unless he wanted the Congregation's sniffers on his trail. They'd come to the slums – they always did.
With a nod, he slid the twelve Ord across the counter – a ten and a two. It wouldn't be the end of the world, but he felt the reaper breathing down his neck as Kye began wrapping less meat than he wanted. A whole half pound missing, 36 hours up in smoke.
"Thanks for the heads-up Kye" he sighed, slumping against the counter. "Don't know what I'd do without you."
A snort was her only response as she finished packaging the meat and slid it across the counter. But before Bellamy could take it, her hand stayed firm on the package.
"It's not enough," she said, her voice low. "I'm off in less than an hour, I doubt you'll get paid by then. If the Congregation wasn't in town maybe you could make it. But your brother …"
Bellamy shrugged, his expression unreadable. "I'll figure it out. I always do". He pulled at the package, but Kye's grip didn't bulge.
"Aye, you do," she said, tone cutting. "But you're reckless, and we can't afford recklessness right now, Bell. The Congregation is here for their March of Purification. We'll be lucky if they're only rounding people up for a month. Face it. You're out of good options.
Her words punctured, not simply because they were cruel words, but because they were true. Not much in life cuts deeper than a cruel truth. He couldn't get enough to buy meat from a distributor like Kye, not when they were all about to go into hiding, which left only rippers – and that came with its own risks. Essence taint, getting murdered, it being a set-up, and then him being forced to march. Killing someone himself for meat wasn't an option either; the Congregation would sick one of their sniffers on any missing person, and that trail would lead straight to him. Even killing one of the undocumented Verdan wouldn't solve his problems. As much as he hated to admit it, The Congregation wasn't stupid. They'd still pick up the trail.
"Well, unless you have work for me," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, "Reckless is how it's going to have to be". It was a dangerous gamble. He knew what cult Kye was a part of, and they didn't take disruptions well.
Kye studied him momentarily, then reached under the counter again. Bellamy tensed, and his instincts screamed, but he kept himself in check. Kye pulled out eight more packages of meat and a small box, and suddenly Bellamy's breath caught in his throat. The essence glowed faintly, a swirling vortex of colors – deep blues and greens shifting like liquid smoke. It was pure, concentrated power, the kind that could sustain an undead like him for months. To those who hadn't partaken in essence, it was invisible, but to him, it was ambrosia, a lifeline and a curse all at once. Each color hinted at its origin, tied to a Greater Power, though Bellamy couldn't tell which color meant what. Few knew the secrets of essence, far fewer than those who communed or consumed.
He swallowed hard, his mind racing. That was a month's worth of food minimum if he ate like a glutton. And the essence, the essence alone, could keep him going for much longer.
Kye smiled, a knowing glint in her eye. "Ah, I guessed you'd recognize this. Wasn't sure if you'd taken essence, but that look... Never seen it on anyone else but a harbinger. You'll know, then, essence doesn't come cheap".
It was a strange feeling, being seen through so completely. Terrifying, in a way that was hard to describe – a mix of exposure and vulnerability. Bellamy didn't enjoy it. He would've liked to say he was a wise, thoughtful man. That he weighed the consequences. That he considered his options, but the truth was simpler, cleaner. He was desperate. She knew it.
"What's the job?”
She gestured to the box of essence, “Find out where this came from.”
SHIFTY
Thrysa’s smile widened as she ladled another helping of chicken soup into a roughly carved wooden bowl, handing it to the small child in front of her. “Careful now, it’s hot,” she said gently. The child stared up at her with wide, questioning eyes. Thrysa pointed across the gymnasium with a wrinkled finger. “If you head that way, there are warm winter clothes for you. And that line over there? The nice man will give you some toys and snacks for later.”
The Congregation had transformed the local gymnasium into a hub of activity. Before arriving in Velnias, they had collected donations from the people of Dej Khov and the towns they passed through on their journey by train. At each stop they had taken time to track down undead –or, more often, the undead had found them – to join the March of Purification. Building trust was key to their mission, and they made a point of using some of the donations to support the communities they visited. It was a way to show their intent, to prove they were there to help, not just take and harm.
The atmosphere on the peninsula was tense. Ever since Spearhead’s death weeks ago it felt as though everyone was holding their breath, waiting for a disaster they couldn’t possibly prepare for. People needed hope, something to believe in, and so the Cardinal – the speaker for The Heart That Beats True– had declared the march. Velnias was their final stop, and likely the one that would take the longest, the capital was always teeming with the abominations. So far, they had found over one hundred and eighty undead. Of those, one hundred and sixty had chosen to join the march, while the remaining twenty had been executed. Once they rounded up the abominations in Velnias, they would return to Dej Khov to perform the ritual – the ritual that could cleanse them of the original sin.
The undead were a grim reminder of sentient’s darkest impulses. They came into being when someone consumed the meager amount of essence directly from another person, a monstrous act that the world punished by twisting their soul – their body and mind reflecting their sin. These creatures were cursed to prey on others, often the frail and helpless, driven by an insatiable need for sentient flesh. It was a cruel irony: the very act that granted them power also stripped them of their humanity.
Some hadn’t chosen this fate; they had been tricked or forced into it. A single act of malice – a poisoned stew, for instance – could doom an entire village. But once transformed, they lost themselves. They became monsters, and monsters had to be dealt with.
Yet, there was hope. The purification ritual offered a chance at redemption. Not everyone survived the process and no one knew the criteria for those who lost their sin and returned to the living and those who burned. For those who emerged, renewed, it was a second chance – a return to the fold of the living, free from the original sin. Thrysa had seen it herself: the moment when the light returned to their eyes, when they remembered what it meant to be human.
When Thrysa heard about the march, she jumped at the opportunity to join. It wasn’t as glamorous as she had imagined, especially since the Cardinal had allowed the Puritan sect to tag along for muscle. She suspected the Puritans had found more than just the five undead they had reported, but she would never be able to prove it. The Puritans saw no distinction between those who had chosen this path and those who had not, or even those who had learned to regret their folly. To them, the undead were a blight, a corruption to be eradicated the moment it was found. The thought made her sick to her stomach. They’d do the same to her if they ever discover that she was a Verdan, a natural Harbinger, a Brinn to be exact.
As a Brinn, Thrysa didn’t have a “true” form. She was whoever she appeared to be, her body crafted and molded for purpose. Right now she wore the visage of an old woman with smile lines and wrinkled eyes, a face shaped by a lifetime of kindness. It was a part of her that allowed her to move among humans unnoticed.
The rest of her shift passed uneventfully. She handed out bowls of hot soup to anyone who wanted one, grateful for the gymnasium’s spacious interior. It was far better than forcing people to wait outside in the cold. The line of people had dwindled to a few stragglers, and the hum of conversation in the gymnasium had softened to a murmur. Thrysa wiped her hands on her apron, glancing around the room. Families huddled together under donated blankets, children played with simple wooden toys, and the scent of soup and bread lingered in the air. For a moment, it almost felt like peace.
As she set the ladle down into the pot with a light clatter, a young man approached – a puritan, his stern expression softened by a faint smile. He wore the distinctive black and gray robes of his sect, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms marked by faint battle scars. There was a quiet intensity to him, a sense of purpose that made Thrysa pause. She had grown used to the Puritan’s presence, but she still felt a pang of unease whenever one got too close. Still, he had seen this one before, his tone was kind, and his eyes held no malice towards her. Why would they? To him, she was simply an old sister, harmless and devout.
“Sister,” he said, nodding respectfully. “Let me take over for you. You’ve been at this for hours.”
She forced herself to relax and handed him the ladle. “Thank you, brother. It’s been a long day. But it's still pleasant.”
“It has,” he agreed, stepping behind the table. The line was empty now, leaving the table quiet. “It’s lovely isn’t it? Seeing the hope in their eyes?” He gestured to the hubbub of people, sitting in small groups, laughing and eating their meal, his voice tinged with something like reverence. “This is how it should be, warm food, a safe life away from essence”.
Thrysa studied him for a moment, unsurprised by his earnestness. She was still slightly uneasy by his presence, but she knew deep down this brother was not a bad man, misguided maybe, but his intent was obvious to her. “It is. Though I imagine you see it differently than I do.”
He chuckled a low, warm sound. “Perhaps. But at the end of the day we all want the same thing.” He paused, his expression thoughtful. “I know you will not give me your blessing for our methods sister, but we do what we must. But perhaps … perhaps a blessing still, for hard decisions. Difficult decisions made with kindness”
Thrysa’s chest tightened at his words, but she kept her expression neutral. “What is your name brother”
“Faron”, he nodded at her.
She didn’t need to think to remember the words. They simply danced gracefully from her tongue, their rhythmic nature almost a chant.
“May the Heart That Beats True guide your steps,
Through shadowed paths and trials untold.
May its rhythm steady your soul
And its light reveal truth within.
When doubt clouds your way,
May you hear its call,
A whisper in the silence
A beat in the dark.
Follow not the lies of the world,
But the truth that stirs within your chest.
For the heart that beats true knows itself,
And the path it reveals is yours alone to walk.
Go forth with courage,
And trust in the pulse of the divine.
For The Heart That Beats True is within you Faron
Now and always.”
Faron bowed his head, his shoulders relaxing as though a weight had been lifted. “Thank you sister,” he spoke quietly, eyes closed as he breathed in deeply from the world. “I needed that.”
Thrysa smiled, “You’re welcome, brother. May your path be clear.”
As she turned to leave, Faron called after her, his voice gentle. “Ah, before I forget, sister. The Bishop asked to see you. He’s waiting in one of the offices down the hall”
Thrysa gave a short bow of her head. “Thank you brother, I’ll head there now.
A minute later Thrysa found herself outside the Bishop's impromptu office, knocking lightly waiting for the Bishop's confirmation before entering, “You wished to see me Bishop?”
The Bishop was a young woman, in her early thirties, with auburn hair cascading to the middle of her back. Her face was round, full and might have lent itself to a gentle expression if not for the forced coldness she wore instead. A shame, Thrysa thought.
“Yes, please take a seat”.
Thrysa did as the Bishop asked, delicately placing her hands in her lap as she waited for the woman to continue. But the Bishop remained silent, her lips pursed, her gaze steady of Thrysa. Finally she spoke, “I believe I asked you to return to your original form in private.”
Thrysa hesitated for only a moment. Humans sometimes were preoccupied with their own perceptions. Thrysa was Brinn – there was no “original form” except the vine she had been born from. But she understood what the Bishop meant. The form they had first met in. The first form he took after becoming Verdan.
Without another word, Thrysa’s features began to shift. Her legs extended, wrinkles thinned, her hair darkened and shortened. His green eyes flickered with intensity and the softer lines of his face hardened into the sharper angles of a man. In the span of a breath, the older woman had been replaced by Oaklen – a young, green eyed man with tense muscles and a predator’s poise. Blink too quickly, and it seemed as if someone else had taken its place entirely.
“Thank you Oaklen” the Bishop finally said, an edge of satisfaction in her voice.
“For you? Anything” Oaklen leaned back against the chair, confidence radiating from him, “so ma’am. What can I do for you?”
The bishop smiled, pleased, before opening a drawer and sliding a file across the desk. Without waiting for permission, Oaklen began flipping through the pages, skimming the important points.
“We need a sniffer in the industrial slums, someone with their ear to the ground capable of acting as a rat catcher when needed. Our team has already crafted your persona. You’ll be a respected reporter with gang ties from Coutama, Jim Harven, looking to buy goods and smuggle them into Coutama or the other way round. Late 40’s, a veteran of the War of Bloody Veins. He was a former sheriff before The Great Order and Coutama’s governor failed him with inane policies turning him to a life of crime.”
Oaklen rolled the idea around his mind, his fingers drumming against the file. His thoughts shifted, and his dissatisfaction with the new persona took root, though he kept it subtle. “Would one of my older identities not work?” Oaklen asked, “It takes time to craft a new ego.”
As he flipped through the pages, he could see the crafted history. He was certain the new identity would hold up – solid, well constructed, the kind of persona the division excelled at creation. He’d even seen articles from Harven – headlines like “The Great Order oversteps Coutama’s sovereignty” and “Essence: A Fool’s Dream and the Power to match.” Yes, this was a persona that would pass scrutiny. But managing another ego, even an effective one, added weight. They got grumpy if they never got to come out.
The Bishop shook her head. “I would say yes, but the orders come from higher up. They have particular interest in your target – a gang leader by the name of Viracio. Whatever he’s involved with has them tied in knots, or maybe he’s the key to untangling it all. Either way, none of your older egos would fit this job. No mistakes.”
Oaklen sighed, as he closed the file with a lazy flick. “Very well. I’ll read the packet over and get started. It’ll take me a few days, and then I’ll be off. What exactly am I fishing for?”
The Bishop hesitated before speaking, her voice softer than usual. “I’m not sure myself. I have my theories, but whatever’s spooked them, they’re keeping it close to the chest. They don’t want their assumption to cloud your investigation. But they did ask you to keep an eye out for anything related to essence, and anything experimental. How you go about things, I’ll leave that up to you. You tend to work better when I don’t micromanage.”
Oaklen let out a strained laugh, a grin tugging at his lips. “Well, I couldn’t have said it better myself, ma’am. I won’t disappoint.” He stared down at the file again, giving it a look of pure disdain. “I have some homework to do.”
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First chapter. The view point switches around quite a lot because I need to set up the world and introduce our two PoV characters Bellamy and the Brinn. Next chapters will focus on one of these individual characters PoV and will not jump around as much. Anyways, the hunt begins.