In the world of dreams, a young boy with silver hair sits in a gilded prison. The walls of his chambers are engraved from floor to ceiling in Seraph Marks. The boy’s hand is pressed against the stone wall that divides him from his neighbour. The boy is no older than eight, with ears and incisors that are just beginning to sharpen into points, and bright green eyes that will soon see more than any Man. He leans close, speaking to the person on the other side. The two have never met, and they never will.
“I won’t let them separate us, Thirteen.” He vows. “We’ll get out of here together. We’ll go and see the ocean, just like we promised.”
He presses his forehead against the stones and closes his eyes in prayer. He prays to his mighty god, the Seraphim, asking for their strength. He knows his time will soon come when he will be tested by the evil lurking in his soul. He will either Ascend or Fall.
A young girl calls to him in reply, although Twelve doesn’t recognise the difference in their voices. He’s never seen another boy or girl in his life.
“I know a way we can be together forever.” Thirteen promises him sweetly.
“Hm?”
“Tell me your Name.”
In a blink, the wall melts away and a figure steps through- a young girl his age with a shy smile, crinkled silver hair, and eyes like the clearest sky that Twelve has never seen. She’s wearing the same blood red tunic as him, and there is a black sash tied at her waist.
Twelve is surprised by her presence. Half-formed questions beg to be asked: where did the wall go? How can she be here? Alas, the illogical nature of the dream dulls his mind, and he does not ask. She laughs again; that tinkling, pretty little laugh, and steps closer.
“Didn’t you hear me, sweet thing? I said, tell me your Name.”
Twelve frowns. He's certain that Thirteen has never called him that before, but there is something familiar about the endearment. The unease at the back of his mind grows and he takes a step back.
“Running away? I think not.”
The outline of her body blurs before his eyes; the curves of a woman take shape and her clothes disappear. Twelve’s perspective of the room shifts. He is suddenly tall and slender with long limbs, the muscles of a man knitting themselves together beneath his skin. An aching need throbs in his gut as he looks upon her naked form. She does not give him the chance to retreat. Thirteen rushes forward and presses herself against him. Twelve feels her warmth, so tangible, so close; and a heady floral scent fills his nose.
“Tell me your Name.”
The command is a mere whisper as her lips graze his ear. Twelve grits his teeth; his fangs are long and pointed, and holy Seraphim, he wants nothing more than to bite down into her flesh and take her.
“No.” he denies.
In a blink, those beautiful blue eyes morph into hellish crimson. Her smile becomes a jagged-toothed leer; razor fingernails scrape down his back, eliciting a cry from Twelve’s lips. The infernal voice speaks again, silky and cajoling.
“Tell me your Name, sweet thing.”
“I said no!”
Then there is no more pleasure, only pain. The scent of blood fills Twelve’s nostrils as her claws rip through his abdomen. The voice in his head shrieks with laughter as he convulses, convinced he is about to die.
----
In the real world, the young man jolted awake in his bed, scarlet eyes snapping open. The scent that filled his chamber was neither that of flowers nor blood, but the acrid smell of burning. His bedsheets were in smoking ruins. He jumped out of bed, cursing in his native tongue as he tripped on debris on the floor, hopping over to the barred window and throwing open the shutters to clear the air of smoke. Twelve gripped the iron bars, bracing as indigo flames licked his wrists. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't stop the moan that escaped him.
“Sweet thing, why do you continue to resist me?" the voice in his head crooned. "Give me your Blessed Name, and I will give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. Don’t you want to be reunited with your precious Valour?”
“Don’t call her that.” Twelve spat.
By reflex, he looked to the wall of his cell. His dear friend Thirteen had once lived on the other side. The Seraph Marks embedded in the stone were burning bright, responding to his display of sinful magic.
Contain > Strengthen> Silence
They were containment spells of the strongest kind, designed to keep the young man safely imprisoned, cut off from his neighbours. The Sanctuary was an ancient construct of blackened rock, save for a section of the cell wall that was a shade lighter, where the stones had been recently replaced. When he closed his eyes, Twelve could still remember the deafening explosion and the choking dust in his lungs.
Twelve knew that another Thirteen now lived beyond the dividing wall, but he had no interest in speaking to them. To him, there was only one Thirteen. She could not be replaced. That was his weakness, and the vyla inside him knew it. On cue, the evil creature inside chuckled.
“Why not? That was her true Name. She gave it to us willingly. Why should we not use it?”
“Burn in Torr!” Twelve snarled, slamming his hands against the bars.
Torr was the name given to the Realm of the Vylae in the Seraphic Record. It was described as a world governed by chaos, where the body and spirit had no boundaries; a place of base indulgence, where order was the enemy to be resisted. No Man had ever crossed the boundary between Realms to witness such madness, but Twelve carried a small piece of that madness inside him.
After what felt like an eternity, the flames receded and the voice in his head grew quiet. Twelve, with his head bowed, felt the sun’s morning rays caress the back of his neck.
Another sunrise, he thought, staring out at the barren desert that lay beyond his window Once upon a time, Twelve would gaze upon the outside world and see rolling green fields and dazzling sunsets, but that beautiful lie was long dead. Twelve had burned away the illusory magic in his prison bars so that only the containment spells remained. Being trapped was bad enough; being deceived was more than Twelve could bear. He didn't care if the outside world was ugly. There was only one place he wanted to go; the one thing that kept him going when he laid his head down on the pillow each night to greet his nightmares, hoping that he would live to see another dawn. Thirteen had called it the 'ocean'; a blue expanse that shimmered all the way to the horizon; a sight of freedom they had glimpsed only in the pages of books. Twelve thought it was the edge of the world. That was where he wanted to go.
The young man picked his way across the floor, traversing stray paintbrushes, half-painted canvases, and discarded clothing. At eighteen, the Shaman was an awkward mix of long limbs and sharp edges. He was tall, but due to a lack of exercise, his frame remained slight. Twelve eyed the red robes and matching sash crumpled in the corner with distaste. He hadn’t worn them in more than a year. After all, he lived alone; what need did he have for clothes?
He bent over the pail of water in the corner and drenched his face. Despite the violent dream, he wasn't sweaty; half-breeds like Twelve could eat, drink, and lay with others for pleasure, but they were spared the base bodily functions of Men. Still, the cold was a relief against his overheated skin. As he washed his face, his fingers brushed against the Seraph’s Blessing on his forehead. The Mark lit up at his touch, giving off a sickly glow. Twelve glared down at his ghostly reflection that was slowly fading along with his humanity. He could see straight through himself to the opposite wall. Unfortunately, enough remained for him to despise what he saw. Twelve's long, ashen hair could not completely cover his pointed ears; and although his fangs were concealed by the scowl on his face, he could still feel their sharpness with his tongue. At least his green eyes were once again those of a Man, having lost their scarlet hue. Still, the Shaman knew that it wouldn’t be long before he vanished completely.
The peal of the rising bell rang out across the Sanctuary, signalling the start of morning prayers, but Twelve didn’t even glance over to the ‘altar’. The desginated table was littered with debris and there was a suspect scorch mark on the wall. Even more telling was the absence of the Seraphic Record. Twelve no longer owned a copy of the holy text. His younger self had taken great pleasure in obliterating it.
Instead of praying on his knees, Twelve stood to pay his respects to his favourite painting. A young girl with silver hair and blue eyes grinned down at him. He reached for her, tracing her eyes with a smile. Twelve knew it was naught but a beautiful fiction. He’d never once glimpsed Thirteen’s face. There was something else he had to remember her, though. In the corner of the canvas, written in shaky Ancient Seraphic, was the girl’s true Name.
Valour the Impassioned
Twelve felt the familiar ache of nostalgia and guilt wash over him. Blessed Names were the truest expression of the soul. They were the key to a warlock’s magic; their very life force. It was these keys that the Vylae hungered for. Ergo, the sharing of Names was considered taboo. Twelve and Thirteen, naive children enslaved to their emotions, had broken that taboo. The Seraphim's punishment had been swift and unforgiving.
Now, all that remained of Thirteen was her painted likeness and old black sash, hanging over the canvas edge. Twelve traced the old scars on his stomach absentmindedly. The canvas hid the crest of the Seraphim that remained stubbornly fixed to the wall, despite the Shaman’s best attempts to tear it down. Twelve knew such childish anger was futile, but he couldn't help it. It was the only way to distract himself from the dark questions that clawed at his mind at night.
If he had not convinced Thirteen to give up her Name that day, would she still be here now?
Twelve shook off his melancholy and decided to do something productive. The young man looked over to the pile of books sitting in the corner. They had belonged to Thirteen, before she Fell. With reluctance, Twelve sat down and cracked open the top volume, the page bookmarked from days ago. It took him a long time to read, lips moving silently as he struggled to make sense of the script. Twelve was trying to learn the Common Tongue, the language they spoke in the Empire's lands across the border. If he was going to escape, he needed to know it.
“Song.” he stated aloud with stilted syllables. “A short musical composition of words set to music; a melody for a lyric poem or ballad.”
He understood almost none of the meaning. It was a recurring problem; answers only led to more questions. Twelve turned instead to the definition of ‘music’ and ‘melody’.
“Music: vocal or instrumental sounds, combined in such a way as to produce beauty of form, harmony, and expression of emotion.”
He still couldn’t grasp the concept. If he could only hear it, Twelve thought he might understand- but such things were forbidden in Sanctuary Medita. Anything that might excite the blood was off-limits, to avoid provoking their demonic urges. Twelve’s physical movement was minimised within the confines of his chamber; the food he received was always bland, and he spent the endless time at his disposal absorbed in books and blank canvases, peaceful pursuits of the mind that were deemed 'safe'.
His only human contact came from his jailers. A part of Twelve’s cell wall acted as a one-way door, through which food and other items could be passed. During these brief visits, Twelve would catch a glimpse of the grey corridor that lay beyond. There were black doors lining the opposite wall, each bearing a numeral; presumably, they were other cells just like his. Twelve had no idea just how many others were imprisoned alongside him.
The young man was distracted from his reading, nose twitching as he caught wind of an unfamiliar scent.
New blood?
He felt the demonic creature inside him stir in response. The stranger was on the upper floor. The Shaman turned his nose in the direction of the ceiling, breathing deep.
Female, he thought. That was unfortunate. Men were easier targets. Occasionally, well-to-do officials dressed in the King's colours would visit the Sanctuary and observe the Shaman children in captivity. It seemed to Twelve that he and his brethren were objects of amusement; an oddity to be ogled. Well, if they wanted to ogle, Twelve was more than happy to oblige. Such soft men were easy for him to seduce. Their lusts burned wild and unrestrained, unlike his jailers in white.
Thankfully, on this occasion, Twelve wasn’t totally out of luck. This woman was young, much younger than the other Sisters who manned the Sanctuary. Her fertility was only just beginning to wane, so she would be plenty susceptible to his charm. Twelve reckoned she must be a new transferee from the capital. It was an opportunity too good to pass up.
Twelve closed his eyes, squashing down his disgust as he called to the evil force inside him.
“Give me power.”
In his mind’s eye, the Shaman could clearly see the creature that haunted his soul. Its spirit was made of fire and shadow; red eyes stared Twelve down, a forked tongue slipping past its lips in hunger- but it could not taste him. Chains bound the vyla from head to toe that were tethered to Twelve himself. He was the anchor point. The young man's soul burned with equal ferocity, his chains imbued with an angry, red aura. As a chosen child of the Seraphim, Twelve had the strength to resist the Vylae. it was his will that kept the demon in check. The only way that it would claim his soul, would be if Twelve gave up his holy Name.
The vyla parted its delicate lips and let out a low, rumbling chuckle. Despite its otherwise eldritch appearance, it had a human face- her face... or at least, the face Twelve had imagined for Thirteen. As he looked into those scarlet eyes, the dark impulses that lurked within him increased tenfold.
“Of course, sweet thing. I can give you all the power you desire, if you just tell me your Name.”
Twelve, as usual, ignored the temptation. His chains tightened around its torso, and the evil creature let out a pained hiss. No matter how many times they went through this, it never got any easier for Twelve. Seeing Thirteen in pain, knowing it was because of him, filled him with crippling guilt.
It's not her, Twelve reminded himself. The demon had looked into Twelve's heart and stolen her face because she was his weakness. He wouldn't let it win.
The chains under his fingers grew hotter as he allowed the vyla's sinful energy to corrupt him. In the pitch-dark surroundings, the ‘floor’ was littered with a sea of broken links where his binding chains were slowly breaking. Twelve watched as yet another link shattered under the pressure, his chains melting and reforming, shorter than before. The vyla moved a couple of inches closer, slowly but surely closing the gap.
Back in the physical world, the air in his cell became heavy as his demonic power began to leak, so thick and dense that Twelve could practically see the dark cloud hanging over him. The walls shimmered as the Seraph Marks recoiled from the presence of the evil magic. A part of Twelve was sickened, but another revelled in it. He pressed himself up seductively against the stone.
“Come and find me.”
Twelve wasn’t waiting long before he heard footsteps in the corridor. He looked expectantly at the wall. On cue, the stone fell away, and in front of him stood a woman in her mid-thirties. She had blonde hair and a round face, the beginnings of laughter lines setting in around her mouth. There was a flush upon her cheeks, and her eyes were half-lidded, as she looked at Twelve as if he were the most important thing in her world.
“Who are you?” she managed, slurring her words.
“I want us to enjoy ourselves.” He replied, head tilted in false coyness. “You’ll let me out, won’t you?”
“I… I don’t think I’m supposed to.”
“Forget about that. Think about what you want.”
Twelve watched with bated breath as the Sister raised her hand, bloodscribe clenched between her fingers. She pressed the nib against the portal’s surface. He bared his fangs in a victorious grin- but alas, he was celebrating too soon.
“I thought you didn’t take confession anymore.”
The words cut through the air like nails down a chalkboard. Twelve winced, recognising the speaker as Mother Elise. Sure enough, a woman with iron grey hair and a weathered face came marching up to her younger charge and plucked the bloodscribe from her grip. The entranced Sister didn’t notice any of this. Her eyes remained glassy, a faraway smile on her face as she gazed upon the Shaman boy. Mother Elise turned to address Twelve. The silky vowels of Ancient Vylaic did nothing to soften her tone.
“Interesting choice, escaping in the nude. Were you going for the element of surprise? I’m afraid you’ll have to try harder than that.” Mother Elise leaned closer. “Now, be a good boy and let her go.”
Twelve huffed but did as he was bid. The new Sister blinked slowly as the Shaman’s grip on her released.
“What happened? Where…?”
She gasped and reeled backwards as she found herself staring into the eyes of a monster. Mother Elise caught her shaken charge by the shoulders.
“It’s alright.” The older woman assured in the clumsy vernacular of the Common Tongue. “Go. I’ll deal with this.”
The novice didn’t need telling twice. She turned tail and fled down the corridor, not daring to look back. Mother Elise watched her go, and then gave Twelve the evil-eye. The Shaman did not flinch under the scrutiny.
“Honestly, young man, how many more times must we go through this?”
This was not the Shaman’s first escape attempt. Many times, victory had been nearly in his grasp; but Mother Elise always thwarted him.
“As many as it takes.” Twelve asserted.
The older woman stepped up to the glass that separated them, staring into Twelve’s eerily beautiful face. Each Sanctuary beyond the border was ruled by a Mother Minor, with a cohort of women- her ‘Daughters’- under her care and command. Mother Elise was the undisputed ruler of Sanctuary Medita. She was hard like granite and sharp like glass; utterly impenetrable, even for Twelve.
“Channelling that amount of power is stupidly reckless. Mad, even. Well, they do say that repeating the same action and expecting a different result is a sign of madness.” She paused, assessing him. Twelve bared his teeth at her. “Although, credit where credit is due, your stubbornness is impressive. You should have Fallen long ago; but here you are, still clinging to your humanity.”
“What’s left of it, you mean.” he spat. Mother Elise raised an eyebrow.
“Is that what this was, a cry for help?”
“No.”
Mother Elise took note of the shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights, his unbrushed hair and sunken cheeks where he had been eating less than usual. In his cell, fresh artworks were strewn across the floor, the paint still visibly wet. Dozens older canvases were stacked in the corner, forgotten. It was the behaviour of a man possessed- and that was to say nothing of the... questionable content. Even a worldly woman like Mother Elise could not gaze upon such salacious works without blushing. By rights, she should confiscate them along with his painting materials- but if she did that, would Twelve have left?
“Your room is filthy.” She informed him. “Rather than wasting your time on futile escape attempts, I suggest you put your mind to something useful. Oh, and sort out your hair too. A mane of that length is hardly appropriate for a young man. At this rate, you’ll be using it as a climbing rope… or, let me guess, was that your next hairbrained scheme?”
“No, but thank you for the idea.”
Mother Elise’s eye twitched.
“That was not a request, Twelve.”
“What are you going to do- make me?” he challenged, squaring up to her. He knew full well she wouldn’t step through the portal.
“I will do nothing. The Seraphim, on the other hand, will not be impressed by your attitude.”
Twelve raised his chin in defiance.
“Fuck the Seraphim.”
He’d uttered the curse in the Common Tongue for Mother Elise’s benefit. Twelve was satisfied to see her flinch.
"Such disrespect will not go unpunished by the gods." she warned. He snorted in contempt.
"What more can they do to me? We both know they've already made up their minds."
The Seraphim tested all Shamans with a holy trial. Only those with the purest hearts and strongest faith were permitted to Ascend, binding the vyla inside them to their will. They were the lucky few who were allowed to walk free from Sanctuary Medita. The rest would Fall, turning into mindless demons to be put down.
Thirteen had failed the test. Twelve was failing too.
“Well, perhaps you’d be doing better if you spent more time praying and less time escaping.” Mother Elise suggested. In response, Twelves slammed his bare foot against the portal in rage. The translucent surface shuddered but did not buckle. She tutted at him. “Temper, temper… but I know it’s not really me you’re angry with, is it? Or the Seraphim, for that matter.”
A look of pain flashed across the young man's face, but he said nothing. Mother Elise’s expression softened. She reached for her hip flask attached to the belt at her waist, next to her small confessional notebook. Each day, the Sisters made their rounds, speaking with the young people in their care. During confession, the Shamans would admit their darkest thoughts and temptations, which were meticulously recorded. It indicated how close they were to Falling. The prescribed remedy following confession was always the same: prayer. Lots of it.
Clipped to the other side of her belt was Mother Elise’s short sword. It was a Forged weapon, with Seraph Marks inscribed into the blade that made it effective against the Vylae. It could exorcise a human host, destroying the demonic spirit that lurked within- and of course, the host in the process. Every Sister in the Sanctuary was armed with the same.
“Here. I think you’ll find this more effective than prayer.”
Mother Elise poured Twelve a cupful of liquor from her flask. With her other hand, she pressed her bloodscribe against the glass, inscribing a series of Marks. The surface of the portal appeared to become liquid, her arm passing through without resistance as she passed the cup across to Twelve. He made no attempt to force his way through. The Shaman had tried it once before, but the portal had rejected him. It was like trying to walk through a brick wall. Their fingers brushed as Twelve accepted the offering. He shivered at the rare moment of human contact, longing to reach out to her. What was it like to be embraced, to be comforted?
Sadly, the only comfort on offer was the suspect liquid in his cup. Mother Elise raised her own drink in toast.
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“To all us sinners.”
Twelve braced himself and drank deep. The liquor burned his throat on the way down. After a few mouthfuls, the world began to lose its focus, and the Shaman felt his usual sense of urgency fading. His guardian was right. This fuzzy feeling was comforting, in its own way. Twelve looked across at his bed in the corner, feeling the overwhelming desire to lay down. He was so tired. When was the last time he’d had a proper night’s sleep? The Shaman turned his back on Mother Elise, and sank down onto the mattress with a groan, laying his arm across his face.
Why am I so weak?
He didn’t realise he’d spoken aloud until Mother Elise answered him, her voice the gentlest that he had ever heard it.
“You are not weak, son. Need I remind you of your heritage?”
Twelve heard the scratching of her bloodscribe against the stone and turned his head. The wall shimmered again, this time displaying the likeness of a familiar tapestry. It told the story of a great battle. On one side were depicted beastly creatures, black shadows with hellfire eyes and twisted forms, bearing down upon a small group of soldiers dressed in red. The scarlet men stood together shoulder to shoulder, hopelessly outnumbered. They shared the same eyes as the enemy, their bodies somewhere between beast and Men themselves.
“Your kin were the ones on the frontline in the War of Realms, fighting on the side of Men. You led the charge.” Mother Elise reminded him.
Twelve scoffed and tore his eyes away from the picture. This wasn’t news to him. As a young boy, Mother Elise had filled his head with all sorts of stories. She told him his magic was special- a contradictory mix of Seraphic and Vylaic that pushed beyond the limits of the Key Precept. It was said that an Ascended Shaman could wield incredible power, without sacrifice.
Not that Twelve knew how it felt to have power.
“I hope the Vylae hurry up and invade again." he remarked bitterly. "Maybe then, the Seraphim wouldn’t be so fussy about who is ‘good enough’ to pass their stupid test. I’m sure you’d be happy. If I died in battle, it would save you the trouble of cutting off my head.”
Silence followed. Twelve knew that he had just dealt a low blow to his guardian. The Mother Minor had been the one to personally ‘take care’ of Thirteen after her Fall. Twelve remembered the scene of chaos as a cohort of Sisters had burst into his cell, surrounding the demon-girl with red eyes and silver hair. Delicate yet unyielding hands held Twelve down, ignoring his pleas. Mother Elise’s sword had sung so sweetly as she drew the blade from its scabbard.
“I did what had to be done that day.” her voice sounded particularly distant, even if they were separated by a foot of solid rock. “If you hate me for it, that’s fine. It’s proof that you loved her. Love is what keeps us human.”
Love?
The word was spoken in the Common Tongue. There was no equivalent in Ancient Vylaic. It was yet another concept that Twelve did not understand.
“So, hate me all you want, Twelve.” Mother Elise continued, her voice hard as nails. “Just hold on for me, just a little longer.”
Twelve was too tired to reply. He heard Mother Elise’s bloodscribe scratching against the stone outside, followed by the sound of her heeled footsteps retreating. The young man turned his head to face the wall. In her wake remained a glowing image of gentle, blue waves set against the backdrop of a cloudless sky. Whenever Mother Elise visited him, she always left him with a pleasant dream; an antidote for the nightmares that were sure to come.
One day, he vowed as his half-lidded eyes began to close. One day, I'll make it out of here, Thirteen. Just like we promised.
----------------------------------------
A thousand miles away, a beautiful woman lay naked in a grand, four-poster bed. She lay staring out the window for a long while as the sun began to rise, turning the sky from inky black to green, until finally the first golden rays of morning kissed the horizon. Next to her, her royal companion stirred in sleep, draping an arm around her waist. She waited patiently until the man’s wrinkled eyes opened. The Mother Supreme turned to face him, assuming a soft smile.
“Good morning, Your Majesty.”
The King reached out and tucked a stray golden curl behind her ear and pressed a kiss to her collarbone and then between her naked breasts. She hid her wince as his grey beard scratched her skin.
“My beautiful sinner. I have a mind to make a new law just for you. It shall be a crime to look so perfect before sunrise.”
“If my perfection displeases Your Majesty, you may tarnish me however you please.” She teased, letting out a deliberate gasp as the man rolled on top of her. Saoirse opened her legs and arched her back, fingers digging into his shoulders as she pulled him closer. She knew every dip and curve of the King’s body, every button to press to get the reaction she wanted, every scar and blemish down to the curious birthmark on his left shoulder.
“I shall be inconsolable when it is time for you to leave my side.” He lamented. “Twenty-seven years old. I cannot believe the time has gone so quickly.”
“I am not quite there yet, Your Majesty.” She rebutted, hooking her thigh over his waist. “For as long as you desire me, I belong to you.”
It was soon time for Saoirse to leave the royal bedchamber and return to her Sisters. She pulled on her creased robes that had fallen at the bottom of the bed, brushing out her golden hair so that she looked presentable. The King remained propped up against the pillows, with the bedcovers draped across his body. His formerly muscular frame was just beginning to lose its edge with middle age.
“Saoirse dear, when you go, send in your sweet Sister to me.” He called.
As the Mother Supreme opened the door to the bedchamber, there was indeed a young girl dressed in white waiting outside, escorted by two members of the Royal Guard. The Royal Guard was a small, territorial force two-hundred strong, drawn from the ranks of the Empire’s army. They were responsible for keeping peace within the capital city, identified by their uniforms in the royal colours of burgundy and gold. Only a select few were trusted to serve in the palace, handpicked by the King for their loyalty and discretion.
Saoirse studied the faces of the two men and realised, to her displeasure, that she did not recognise them. As the Mother Supreme of the White Sisters, Saoirse made it her business to learn the names and faces of every soldier that walked the palace. These two must have been recently promoted. She hadn’t seen them the night before, so this was likely their first morning on the job. The green guardsmen were staring at her with a mixture of trepidation and desire, drinking in her dishevelled appearance. To the common folk, the Mother Supreme and her Sisters were the living embodiment of the Maidens that walked upon the earth. Until this moment, the guardsmen had imagined her an untouchable goddess. Now, they saw her as a woman. Little did they know, she was something far stranger.
“Aren’t you going to greet me, gentleman?” she questioned mildly. The guardsmen jumped and sank into low bows before her.
“Your Eminence.”
Saoirse closed the bedchamber door quietly, sparing a glance to her left. Only one man standing here knew the truth of who she really was. As always, one of the Sentinels was standing guard, a hulking shadow of a man, dressed in black. He had been there all night. The Royal Guard were a competent fighting force, but only the Sentinels were trusted to guard the King’s life as he slept. The warlock did not look at her as she passed by, keeping his eyes straight ahead. Perhaps he was afraid he would turn to stone if he looked at her directly, Saoirse thought with a half-smile. She was a witch, after all.
The girl in white acknowledged her superior’s presence with a polite curtsey as Saoirse approached. The pair switched places without a word exchanged. The girl entered the King’s chambers with robotic steps, as the Mother Supreme took her place between the guardsmen. The men in scarlet and gold handed back her personal effects. All visitors to the royal palace were required to surrender their weapons to the Royal Guard on entry. Even Saoirse was not exempt from protocol. The soldiers passed her a small, black velvet box which resembled a spectacle case. They looked at it with quiet curiosity as they handed it back, wondering what weapon could possibly be contained within such a tiny box. Saoirse knew that great things often came in small packages- and that was especially true for magical artefacts.
She was summarily escorted by the guardsmen to the depths of the palace. As they walked the ornate halls, the Mother Supreme made small talk with them.
“Congratulations on your promotion, gentleman.” She simpered. The soldiers exchanged glances.
“Thank you, Your Eminence- but how did you know?”
“The King said he was expecting two new palace guards. He spoke most highly of your abilities.” the Mother Supreme lied easily. The men exchanged pleased glances. Saoirse pretended not to notice. “Might I ask, what are your names?”
“Balfour.”
“Janus.”
“Strong names for strong men. Where are you from?”
Saoirse had already made her predictions. Janus was a hefty, plain-faced man with dark skin and hair, a northerner no doubt; whilst Balfour was blonde and slighter in stature with a capital accent.
“Mardu in the north.” Janus replied.
“I was born and raised right here in Hanbarus, your Eminence.” Balfour smiled.
“How fascinating.” She slowed her steps to keep them talking. From her many years at court, the Mother Supreme had learned that men loved to speak about themselves. The beautiful woman turned to Janus with a sympathetic expression. “You are far from your homeland, aren’t you? I expect your wife must be lonely.”
“Ah well, I have no wife, or children just yet.” The man scratched the back of his neck with a shy smile. “Now that I’ve gone up in the world, I’m hoping that will change.”
“I’m sure it will.” Saoirse assured. The solider's current lack of family ties was unfortunate, but she was confident that she could change that. Janus was relatively handsome and with fair prospects. One of her girls was bound to encounter him in the palace before long. Saoirse would allow their natural feelings to blossom, and then she would have leverage over him. There would be no marriage, however; it was a cardinal rule that a Sister could only marry a fellow warlock. These Unblessed men were beneath them.
“And what of yourself?” Saoirse questioned, turning to the other. Balfour was more forthcoming than his comrade, typical of the lax southern attitude.
“I’m married to a wonderful woman, Emilia.” His smile lit up his face as bright as his golden hair. “I met her at the midsummer solstice festival two years ago. She’s a wonderful dancer- swept me off my feet, quite literally! You should taste her cooking too. She makes a smashing chicken stew.”
“Is she pretty?”
“The most beautiful woman in the Empire.”
“In the Empire? I rather thought that was my title. What say you?” Saoirse played with a lock of her hair as she waited for his reply, staring him down. Balfour laughed nervously.
“I’m a married man, Your Eminence.”
Defensive. Weak-willed. Pliable.
“You are married, not blind.” She quipped.
“You are beautiful indeed, Your Eminence; but Emilia is the mother of my children.” He replied, trying to be diplomatic. Saoirse’s smile widened; a wolf eying a sheep.
“Children, you say? How wonderful.”
“Yes, we have two right now. A son and a daughter, and one on the way. Emilia is expecting.”
“Then it seems this promotion couldn’t have come at a better time for you.” The Mother Supreme was pleased by this revelation. Balfour would be desperate to keep his position in the palace to support his growing family. She continued digging. “Your son and daughter, how old are they?”
“My boy is eight. My daughter is fourteen.”
“Fourteen… the same age as young Carys.” Saoirse mused.
“Carys?” Janus prompted.
Saoirse did not stop walking. She eyed the dark passageway ahead, leading to an apparent dead end. It was important that she choose her words carefully, siphoning off the bitterness.
“She is the girl that you escorted to the King’s bedchamber just now.”
The soldiers stopped in their tracks. Balfour was left stammering.
“I-I… Your Eminence, I apologise that I could not step in.”
Saoirse stopped and turned to look at them. In the gloom she looked ethereal, the flickering torchlight turning her golden hair silver, her iron-grey eyes glimmering dangerously.
“Why do you apologise? Did I say anything?” The men did not answer her. Saoirse spared them the trouble, gesturing towards the end of the corridor that appeared to be sealed. “Observe. We are here.”
“What do you mean, your Eminence?” Janus frowned. The passageway led nowhere. Saoirse smiled at their naivete. She opened the velvet case and took out her bloodscribe, approaching the wall. Soairse recalled her Blessed Name to mind, shivering as her power filled her.
Solace the Bearer
The tool bit into her palm. Saoirse hid her flinch of pain, overriding the resistance that demanded her to stop. She would not bow to arbitrary principles that sought to confine her magic to a set class, Key Precept be damned. The metal nib traced the indentations in the stone, where her fellow Sisters had made the same inscription hundreds of times before. Her fresh blood absorbed into the stone, the Seraph Marks reawakening with a white glow.
>Open<
The wall groaned and complained as the entrance fell away, revealing a dark passageway beyond. The tunnel ran underneath the Great River that passed through the capital. Sanctuary Prima and the royal palace sat on opposite banks of the river; the tunnel provided a direct link between the two.
The soldiers escorting Mother Saoirse stepped backwards in shock. It was their first time witnessing magic.
“No need to fear. Your weapons and armour are made with the same. Come, let me show you.” The Mother Supreme reassured them, gesturing to the swords at their hip. The man on the left hesitated before drawing his blade and presenting it to her. Saoirse touched the sword-point with her finger. On contact, the silver metal lit up, spreading out until the entire blade was alight with magic. The man held the weapon at arm’s length, as if it would burn him. “See? Our magic is always protecting you. This is the truth of the Sisterhood.” Saoirse pointed to the crest engraved at the base of the steel, bearing the symbol of the White Sisters. She gave the shaken men a magnanimous smile and took hold of their hands, squeezing gently. “Welcome to the royal palace, gentleman. It is with regret that I must bid you both farewell. No doubt we will see each other again soon. I will be sure to send one of my eligible Daughters your way, bachelor Janus; and please give my regards to your wife, sir Balfour. If you serve well, I will do your family the honour of a personal visit. This fair city of ours is not so large, after all. I'm sure they will be easy to find. Do take care of yourselves now."
The Mother Supreme released their hands and made her way alone down the passageway. Seraph Marks engraved into the stone activated, sensing her presence, and the torches on the wall flared to life. Her skin crawled underneath her robes. How she longed for a bath. At the end of the corridor, she came to the foot of a grand, spiral staircase that spanned all five floors of the Sanctuary. Visitors always came through the main entrance; only Saoirse and her Daughters used the hidden staircase, the better to keep their clandestine activities away from prying eyes. Saoirse gathered her skirts and began the long climb to the fifth floor, where the dormitories were located.
By the time she reached the top, her legs were aching in protest. At this hour, her Daughters were still fast asleep- just as she had planned. Saoirse headed for the sixteenth door on the left of the corridor. The occupant’s name of ‘Tara’ was engraved into the wood in curly script. Saoirse touched the door with her bloodscribe, easily undoing the feeble locking spell. Sister Tara was only an average warlock, at best. The Mother Supreme took off her heeled shoes and entered the girl’s quarters unannounced. The inside of the room was dark, but Saoirse could make out two large lumps beneath the bedsheets. Her bare feet moved silently across the marble floor. A jug of water sat adjacent on the bedside table. Soairse picked it up, standing over the bed, and upturned the contents.
Sister Tara awoke with a shriek, bolting upright in bed. Her companion growled a string of swear words, pushing his sopping wet hair out of his eyes. They fell silent when they noticed the Mother Supreme. Tara gasped and pulled the soaking bedcovers over her naked form, stammering out an explanation, whilst her lover sat next to her silent as the grave. Appropriate, seeing as the penalty for any man caught trespassing in the halls of the Sisterhood was death by hanging. Saoirse held up her hand to stop Tara talking.
“Be silent. You have already defiled this Sanctuary with your sordid actions. Do not compound your sins with lies.” Sister Tara’s lips worked for a few more moments, but no sound came out. She shut her mouth and bowed her head in defeat. The Mother Supreme nodded in approval. “A wise decision. Now then, I judge you have approximately-” Saoirse glanced out of the window. The sun was almost fully up. “-thirty minutes before the rising bell sounds. I suggest that you get dressed, go downstairs to the temple, and spend that time in quiet contemplation whilst I speak with young Marcas here.”
Saoirse turned her attention to the drenched young man. She knew exactly who he was. Marcas Boyle was a warlock registered on the Sisterhood’s records, but he was a complete amateur with no interest in learning magic. Ordinarily, a waste of talent like him would be of no interest to her. There were many warlocks across the Empire who chose to ignore their gifts and live a 'normal' life. Marcas’ father, however, was a most reputable blacksmith in Hanbarus. Saoirse needed his cooperation.
“Mother, please- it wasn’t his fault. This was my idea.” Sister Tara protested.
“Oh yes, I'm sure he hated every second of your company." the Mother Supreme replied flatly. Marcas squirmed. Saoirse glanced at her charge, who still had not moved. "Tara dear, I suggest you make haste, before your Sisters discover you.”
The shamed woman made to obey, pulling the bedcovers around her shoulders for modesty. Saoirse tutted. Tara looked across at her fearfully.
“Leave the sheets.” Saoirse instructed.
"W-what?"
“Oh, have you suddenly acquired a sense of shame? Come now, my dear. Show me the body you are so willing to share.”
Sister Tara swallowed and let the sheets fall from her shoulders, trying in vain to hide from her superior’s cold gaze. She was a plump farmer’s daughter. Saoirse watched on in silence as her naked flesh jiggled in her haste to gather her things. By the time Tara left, she was in floods of tears. Saoirse had the foresight to catch the door before it could slam shut. It wouldn’t do to wake everyone up. She had but a few, precious minutes to reason with young Marcas.
Saoirse stood opposite the naked man in the bed, appraising him. He was handsome, with a defined chest, broad shoulders and strong jaw. It was easy to see how Sister Tara had been taken in.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Marcas rasped, trying and failing to sound confident. Saoirse did not blink.
“I am contemplating your fate should I call the Royal Guard. I wonder, which of your heads will they cut off; the big, or the small?” Her eyes fell to his crotch. Marcas cringed, hands moving instinctively to cover himself.
“Please listen to me, Your Eminence. It’s true what Tara said. I told her we had to stop this, ages ago!”
“Indeed, you did.” Saoirse acknowledged, reaching into her robes and pulling out a lengthy scroll. She unfurled it with a flourish and began to recite.
“Now then. Your name is Marcas Boyle, born in Hanbarus, the only son of Flynn Boyle. Your mother is deceased. You have two younger sisters, aged twelve and eight respectively.” The man’s expression grew increasingly guarded as she rattled off his information. Saoirse scanned the parchment, picking out bits and pieces for dramatic effect, until she found the part she was looking for. “Ah yes, here it is. You formally courted Sister Tara a year ago, didn’t you?”
“I did.” He replied stiffly.
“On paper you were a perfect match: a daughter from a respectable farming community, and you, the son of a reputable blacksmith of the capital. It seems you courted happily enough for two months, but when the prospect of marriage was raised, you mysteriously got cold feet.” Saoirse raised her gaze from the page to look him dead in the eye. “Funny that.”
“Your Eminence, I assure you, Tara was- is- very dear to me.” He professed. Saoirse’s eyes narrowed at his slip. “We just… wanted different things.”
“Indeed. You wanted to bed her, whilst she wanted a husband.” Marcas opened his mouth to protest but Saoirse held up her hand. “No need to be coy. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. Most eligible bachelors only come here with one thing on their mind. That’s why I tell my girls to keep their legs closed until they have a ring on their finger. Let me guess, Tara finally let you into her bed on the promise of marriage, and the very next morning you called it off.”
“I thought it was better that we stopped seeing each other, yes.” Marcas replied carefully.
“Yet you did not stop. You continued to string her along.”
“She wouldn’t take no for an answer! She kept sending me letters and asking after me. What was I supposed to do?”
“Be a man and hold to your word.” Saoirse retorted. Marcas flinched as if the beautiful woman had struck him. “Instead, you took advantage of a girl with little self-confidence. You seized her maidenhood under false pretences, diminishing her value; and then, to add insult to injury, you continued the farce. You allowed her to hope that you would one day commit.”
“That isn’t-”
“What does it say of your manhood that Sister Tara was so quick to jump to your defence, whilst you are yet to speak up in hers?” Saoirse demanded. Marcas fell silent, unable to answer the charge. The Mother Supreme's words sharpened until they threatened to cut the fiend to ribbons. “I concede that the silly girl has her faults. She is overfed, underread, and invests herself too quickly in the welfare of others- but she is a good girl. More importantly, she is a Sister." Saoirse pressed her hand over her breast in sincerity. "I am the Mother Supreme of this Sanctuary, and I say that no Daughter of mine will be taken for a common whore. I reckon you see enough of those in between your visits here. In fact, I count that you frequented-” Saoirse paused, referring back to her report “- no less than seven brothels in the space of two weeks. You’ve been a busy boy, haven’t you? I confess, I am surprised that you have the time or money for such activities, when your father’s business is in such dire straits.”
Marcas blinked at the sudden change in topic. He shook his head, like a dog trying to clear its ears of water.
“Sorry… but what does my father have to do with this?”
“Shouldn’t you know, being the son and heir to the family business?” Saoirse shot back, making him sink another two inches into the feather mattress. “For your information, the Sisterhood is overdue a substantial order of new swords for the Royal Guard. It is already two weeks late and counting. Throw in your improper conduct with Sister Tara, and we have more than enough grounds to terminate our supplier contract.”
The Sisterhood commissioned several merchants across the Empire to supply them with weaponry, which they then upskilled with Forging magic. Marcas' father was one of them. The young man looked up at the Mother Supreme, white as a ghost.
“You can’t. It’ll be the end of us.”
Saoirse smiled at him.
“Yes. I know.”
“…What must I do?”
“For starters, you will make good on your original promise of marriage to Sister Tara. You will pay her dowry to the Sisterhood, which we shall hold on trust for her father. As for the shipment, you will ensure its arrival within the week and make a discount for the late delivery. Fifty percent.”
“Fifty?” Marcas was aghast. “Your Eminence, those are good swords, the very best! The cost of the raw materials alone-”
He broke off in confusion as Saoirse slipped her robe off one shoulder and began to tousle her golden hair. She gripped hold of the hem of her robes and tore it the length of her leg, exposing a milky thigh. Marcas licked his lips in want and tore his eyes away with difficulty.
“What are you doing?” he dared to ask. Saoirse’s smile never faded from her face.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m calling the Royal Guard. We can add attempted assault of the Mother Supreme to your charge.”
“No!” he leapt from the bed before she could take another step towards the door. Naked, he sank to his knees before her. “I’ll do it, I’ll do what you said. Everything. Anything!”
Saoirse held out her hand for him to kiss. He did so, trembling as he took hold of her fair fingers.
“Excellent, I do so love a wedding. I’m sure Sister Tara will be thrilled to hear the good news.” Saoirse hummed. “Farewell, boy.”
Saoirse left him there, sitting shocked and naked on the cold marble floor. She headed for her chambers, satisfied that the negotiation had gone as planned. Of course, there was no way that the Mother Supreme would actually allow one of her Daughters to marry such a pathetic creature, but she would wait to reveal the truth of Marcas' infidelity until the dowry had been paid. A substantial amount of gold would soften the blow for poor Sister Tara. Saoirse hoped that the silly girl would learn her lesson well, but if it happened again, she would find her a place in one of the brothels her 'beloved' so loved to frequent.
The Mother Supreme's chamber stood at the far end of the corridor, identified by its shiny black door. The White Sisters’ motto was proudly engraved there in silver leafing. The same words could be found everywhere in the Sanctuary as a constant reminder of their duty:
Do good
Give hope
Prevent evil
The door had no handle. Saoirse pressed the metal nib of her bloodscribe against the wood. The locking spell was ironclad, opening only for her. The suite within functioned both as her living quarters and workspace. In the reception area, an ornate wooden desk and matching chair took pride of place, and rows of books were displayed to give visitors the impression of superior knowledge. Their spines were covered in a thin layer of dust. Like the rest of the Sanctuary, both the walls and floor were a brilliant white. The only decoration on the walls were the gold-framed portraits that depicted the previous Mother Supremes. Saoirse’s own picture was mounted directly behind the desk, so that her beautiful face was the first thing a person would notice on entering the room. Visitors to her chamber would be invariably overwhelmed by the opulence on display. It was completely intentional. Saoirse needed to distract them from the oddities hidden in plain sight.
She looked to the cabinet tucked away in the corner. Dozens of dolls with stitched smiles sat behind glass. Saoirse approached, scanning their faces. The information on Marcas Boyle had proved valuable indeed, and Saoirse was a firm believer in compensation for a job well done. Most of the dolls' eyes were closed, but one stared out at her; a ragdoll with carrot-coloured wool hair, blue glass eyes, and clumsy freckles drawn onto its face. The lad was one of her most reliable assets. Saoirse had no idea of his name. She had recruited the child almost two years ago; a wretched thing from the slums of Paradise. He was Unblessed, but that did not make him useless. To the contrary, the boy was young, streetwise, and in desperate need of work. In other words, the perfect recruit. Saoirse retrieved the doll and pulled out her bloodscribe, pressing the nib against the doll’s hand. It warmed beneath her touch. The boy would know to expect his reward in short order.
Now, the matter of delivery. Saoirse reached for her purse tucked away in her drawer. The Mother Supreme received a nominal monthly allowance from His Majesty. The Sisterhood generated healthy profits from its commercial enterprise, but its coin went directly to the Crown for redistribution. Saoirse was given the minimum required to maintain the Sanctuaries under her command. She withdrew a gold coin and turned towards her mahogany desk. Underneath the desk was a mysterious, square-shaped object, covered by a blanket that was enchanted with a silencing spell. Saoirse pulled off the cover, revealing a cage that contained half-a-dozen rats. Their cage sat above a small hole in the floor. Without the silencing spell, the rodents' squeaking could be heard loud and clear. The Mother Supreme bent down to great them with a fond smile. To Saoirse, rats were creatures to be admired. They were natural born survivors.
“Hello, my lovelies. I have a job for you.”
Saoirse reached in and retrieved one of the rodents. It sat content in her palm as she ran her finger along its fur, confident it would not bite. The Mother Supreme had never had formal instruction in her natural gifts, but she knew enough of Taming magic to keep her pets docile. She turned the creature over in her hand; a small leather pouch was strapped to its belly. Saoirse slotted in the gold coin and placed her pet back into the cage. It immediately shot off down the hole in the floor. The rat would exploit the nooks and crannies of Sanctuary Prima to escape undetected and head off into the city. Saoirse would guide it to its ultimate destination in the undercity, where the boy would be waiting to receive his hard-earned coin. She just hoped that her pet wouldn't be caught. It was a worry for Saoirse every time she had to relay a message or send payment. The case of Sister Tara and Marcas Boyle was a minor domestic matter, but Saoirse had built her informant network for greater things. As Mother Supreme, she was concerned the security of the Realm. She needed a better way to communicate with her troops- but for now, her current system would have to do.
"What about the rest of you- do you have anything nice for me?"
Saoirse checked each of the remaining rodent's pouches in turn. Two of them bore fruit. The first carried a tiny piece of rolled up parchment. The message therein was simple, bearing no name or signature of the author; their blood would be sufficient for Saoirse to trace the informant and make payment, should their tip-off prove fruitful.
Rogue Forger. Location- Trysk.
The Mother Supreme couldn’t help but roll her eyes. The Sisterhood had monopoly over the magical artefact market, but there were always half-rate magicians in backwater settlements who couldn't resist temptation. They preyed on the poverty of the common folk, selling them sub-standard, and sometimes downright dangerous, magical goods. Blinded by their greed, they believed themselves untouchable. After all, what could the ‘White Witches’ possibly do, trapped inside their Sanctuaries?
Saoirse then turned to her second pet. This one carried something much more macabre. Saoirse upturned the pouch, and the severed tip of a man's finger fell into her lap. The Mother Supreme held it up and smiled in satisfaction.
Fools.
She secured the cage and headed into the adjacent chamber that was her sleeping quarters and private bathroom. A large, glass panel in the ceiling let in the natural light from outside, the sun’s rays reflecting off the marble floor. Passages from the Seraphic Record covered every wall, Seraph Marks shining silver in the morning light. A steaming pool of scented rose water awaited her. Saoirse shucked her clothes and stepped in with a pleasurable sigh. The bath was always replenished with hot water, thanks to the enchantments inscribed into the white tiles.
As she soaked, Saoirse pondered what to do with the tip-off. She had never heard of this ‘Trysk’ place before. It was probably miles from the capital, so sending a child would not be practical. That removed three quarters of her troops from the equation. The remainder were questionable prospects. Time had taught Saoirse that the loyalty of grown adults was not so easy to guarantee. She concluded that there was no reason to hurry; the right man for the job would appear eventually. Haste makes waste, after all.
Saoirse scrubbed herself clean, washing away the evidence of the previous night’s affair, and applied a liberal squirt of shampoo to her hair. The shampoo contained a dye. Her roots, which were just starting to turn an incriminating red, were restored instantly to blond. Then she applied several creams to her skin, paying particular attention to underneath her eyes, neck and hands, where the first signs of aging would rear their ugly head. The Mother Supreme’s beauty was her currency; she had to invest wisely. Saoirse, however, was no fool. She was almost twenty-seven and her fountain of youth was running dry. It was imperative that she secure her position before she was discarded. Thankfully, she had a meeting that afternoon to address that very issue. Saoirse smiled to herself, sinking deeper into the water. The Mother Supreme felt in control, and all was right with the world.
She had no idea that a thousand miles away, in the dark and damp of Sanctuary Medita, a monster somewhere between demon and Man had been set loose.