Gabriel lowered the book onto his lap, his fingers still trembling from the fading pulse beneath his skin. The markings had almost vanished, but the sting of them lingered, crawling up his arm like an unwelcome memory.
The room felt smaller.
The faint draft that seeped through the window carried the scent of the herbs growing in the garden, but the air around him felt unnaturally warm. Like his body was drawing in the heat radiating from the book, feeding on it.
Gabriel exhaled, steadying himself.
He closed the book slowly. Wary that even the slightest motion might provoke another vision, trigger another reaction. The leather creaked under his grip as though the weight of it had doubled.
His eyes grew heavy.
The two faint lines that stretched up his arm had reached his head.
Gabriel raised his hand, looking at the marks disappear before his eyes.
His vision began blurring.
He was seeing three hands in front of his face.
Gabriel set the book on the desk beside the scattered pages and stood. His legs wavered slightly beneath him, a reminder that the visions weren’t just in his mind, they were tearing at something deeper.
His body began slowly falling backwards, stumbling back onto the bed.
His eyes were struggling to stay open.
"I need... I need to stay-"
His eyes closed. Darkness surrounded him.
...
Two days passed.
Far from Eldenreach, beyond the frozen valleys and wind-beaten forest, the capital of the Northern Kingdom stirred beneath a sky of steel-grey clouds.
Galveston.
A city carved by stone and religion, its towers rising like spears trying to pierce the heavens. The bells of the Northern kingdom tolled across the city, each strike echoing through the wide, frost-covered streets.
Inside the Grand Cathedral of the Archangel Mazrion, the air was thick with incense and tension.
The main Church of the North had gathered its top ranking members.
High priests draped in white and gold filled the long wooden table. Bishops and saints stood behind them, silent, the insignia of Mazrion etched into their chest plates. Paladins lined the wall, motionless, helmeted hands rested on silver blades.
A figure in a crimson robe approached the end of the table. His footsteps echoed across the chamber. Full plated armour underneath his ceremonial garbs.
The clergy bowed their heads.
The Cardinal of the North took his seat.
He did not lift his eyes as he spoke.
"Two adventurers entered Blackhaven," he began, voice as cold as the Northern wind, "destroying a vampire nest in an abandoned village nearby."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
Whispers started. "That’s a good thing."
"That’s what adventurers are for." Another said
The cardinal raised a hand. The room turned silent.
He slid a single parchment across the table.
"A red-eyed Demon destroyed the nest."
"Impossible!" A bishop shouted
"In the open?" said another
"Execute him!"
The Cardinal raised his hand again.
His jaw tightened, a vein began to bulge out of the side off his head.
"Find him immediately and seek out –"
The great doors at the hall groaned as they opened.
Reverberating through the hall.
The Cardinal jumped up, fury in his eyes, his hand began reaching for the sword at his side.
He froze.
Everyone at the table stood simultaneously, hands striking the chestplates above their hearts in perfect unison.
The cardinal followed an instant later, his fury dissolving into obedience.
"Your Holiness," the chamber echoed, dozens of voices becoming one.
The figure stepped into the light.
A young man, no older than thirty, crossed the threshold with slow, deliberate steps. Short silver hair framed his youthful face. His eyes, blue as the ocean, swept over the assembly with a calm, distant authority that froze every voice in the room.
His armour gleamed with an unnatural shine, not a scratch or dent marking the flawless craftsmanship.
A pristine sword hung at his hip, untouched by blemishes. When he walked, the entire hall seemed to hold its breath.
No one dared to speak or move.
He stopped short of reaching the table. His gaze swept every bishop and Paladin.
"We have just finished the interrogation of a villager from Blackhaven," his voice low and quiet.
"The demon came from beyond the winding woods."
He paused.
No one dared speak.
"I will go myself... and eradicate the last remnants of their cult."
The hall bowed their heads.
Only the Cardinal remained standing, shoulders stiff, chin raised out of habit more than courage.
"Your grace... we don’t know if the cult is there."
His voice cracked as the words escaped his mouth.
A quiet gasp spread through the hall, barely audible.
The young man’s lips curved upward, slow and deliberate, as his gaze swept across the bowed heads.
Every pair of eyes was directed at him.
No breath, no movement, no sound.
He vanished.
Gone in the blink of an eye.
Not a single bishop, saint, or Paladin had tracked the movement.
An ear-curdling scream ripped through the chamber.
Followed by a heavy thud at the far end of the table.
Every head snapped towards the sound.
The cardinal was on his knees, clutching the stump where his hand had been. Blood spilled across the polished floor.
The young man stood behind him, sword drawn, its pristine edge resting against the Cardinal’s throat.
His expression calm, his eyes cold. There was no mercy in them.
"Do not question my orders," he said quietly.
He pulled the blade back, grazing the cardinal’s neck as he withdrew it.
Without looking down, he wiped the blood from the steel on the zealot’s torn, handless robe.
Then he turned, as if nothing in the hall was worth another glance and began walking toward the doors.
The torches along the walls dimmed as he passed, their flames shrinking away in fear.
"Dispose of him," he gave the last chilling command as he passed through the door.
Every Paladin in the room stepped forward and unsheathed their blade.
What followed were terrified shrieks.
No one present interfered.