The bells of Kaedmon’s Grand Cathedral rang out in the dusk, their cries echoing through the rainswept skies over Holy Camoran.

  But they did not drown out the sound of human cries from outside the city perimeter.

  Beyond the spiked curtain wall, just outside the shimmering barrier that protected the city, was a throng of desperate humans who had been camped outside for weeks on end. Refugees, swaddled in filthy rags and bloody garments, who had fled the uprisings to the West and in the Hinterlands. [Nobles] and [Commoners] alike had been dispelled from their homes by their Hybrid slaves and workers, who had risen up against them with fervor in their eyes, spurred on by the so called ‘Mandate’ that the Archon sent them in their dreams.

  Cardinal Langley watched them from far away and high above – glaring at them from atop the South wall’s battlements. The soldiers garrisoned there did little to dissuade him. Even though their commander muttered something about military protocols that had to be observed, they could not stop a Cardinal of the High Council from overseeing whatever proceedings he wished to.

  To look upon the exterior of the capital now was to look upon a sea of yipping, snapping rodents. Like rats, the humans of Eastmarch had come begging for succor from the most holy of all cities on Argwyll. Instead of protection, however, they had found a legion of dispassionate soldiers waiting for them at the gates, spears armed and ready should these filthy refugees attempt to knock on their doors.

  It was a sorry sight. Mothers and children added their wails to the clamoring. There had been almost daily struggles against the gate-guards – many of which ended in the deaths of dozens before the crowds backed off again and retreated to their shanty camps erected outside the walls. Every day they came to nip at the foundations of the last human stronghold left on Argwyll. And every day their numbers dwindled just a little bit more. If the guards didn’t kill them all eventually, the inclement weather would.

  Langley felt his fists tighten of their own accord.

  That was exactly what the High Cardinal wanted.

  “Kaedmon will see the faithful through this trying time,” he’d told the Council before their last meeting had disbanded a month ago. “This cleansing is by His decree, so that only the most stalwart in their devotion shall remain to sing his praises to the four corners of this earth.”

  As usual, Langley had been the only one to protest – and to veto the proposal that they impose the city-wide quarantine. He bore the snide stares of his Brothers as the motion was passed and then barrier went up that very night. They snickered and spread more gossip about his naivety. He was young, they said, and High Cardinal Remiel silently agreed with them.

  At this point, Langley’s anointed status was the only thing keeping Remiel from having a team of Inquisitorial assassins end his life. Killing a Cardinal was one of the gravest mortal sins. They were Keadmon’s voice on this earth. The arbiters of every trial. And, often, the executioners.

  But thankfully, the worst of them was out running a little errand at the moment...

  Langley inclined his gaze toward the skies, tracing the cracks of lightning that tore through the darkened clouds and blasted the moors beyond Camoran’s walls.

  In the West dwelled the eye of the storm. Waiting. Waiting for the right moment…

  “BACK! GET BACK!”

  Langley turned his attention to what was happening below. A group of guardsmen had sallied forth, blades drawn and thrumming with the faint sound of magical energy along their edges. The refugees huddled at the gates braced themselves, for they knew what this meant.

  The great gates of Camoran were about to open. And in the distance, Langley saw what for.

  A great train of wagons was coming through the dense mists on the moors, each one driven by weary horses and packed with soldiers adorned in the red-black armor of the Eastmarch Greycloaks. It was said that their platemail was forged from the bones of the first Archon, and drenched in that great wyrm’s blood.

  Langley stiffened as he looked at them beat the crowd out of sight, herding them away from the wagons like cattle. Inwardly the young Cardinal tried an appraisal on what lay under the grey tarpaulins thrown on top of the carts – meant to cover up their cargo.

  He tried – and his entire System went into overdrive.

  The sheer Spirit Core count within those carts was off the charts. He canceled his Appraisal and immediately began climbing back down into the city below, shouldering through the now very animated guardsmen who rushed to receive their special delivery.

  He kept his hood pulled tightly over his face. For the time had come. The Conclave was about to begin.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  …

  Through the gates of the once grand city, the procession of wagons entered, flanked by their stern-faced Greycloak escorts.

  The screams of the desperate refugees were quelled as soon as the gates were closed again, and the people of the city breathed a collective sigh of relief. It did not do to actually see and hear those who were less fortunate than themselves. Though some of them took solace in the fact that, out there in the world, there were people who had it worse.

  The massive tarpaulins on the Greycloak wagons attracted the attention of many curious townsfolk. Some of them muttered that they contained extra provisions to see the city through the coming winter. Others mumbled that they were a stockpile of weapons acquired from the remnants of Westerweald’s forces, or perhaps from the decimated fortress of Caer Krea.

  But some knew that something else was afoot, here. Some street urchins dared to creep close, employing stealth skills, and chance a peek under the covers. What they saw chilled them to the bone, and the scuttled away to their dirty back alleys without uttering another word to anyone.

  When the wagons reached the Grand Cathedral, the doors of the grand church were thrown open and the haul was taken inside. There, they were received by the last, most powerful human being in the entire world.

  High Cardinal Remiel had just finished his morning vespers when he heard the Greycloaks knock at the Cathedral doors. He bade the serving boys open them and quickly usher the wagons inside. He then rose and welcomed the new arrivals with open arms.

  Tonight, he knew, was going to be a night they’d all remember.

  “Welcome back,” he said, spreading his thin arms wide to receive the Greycloak entourage. “You, the vanguard of humanity’s Final Victory, have returned as Kaedmon decreed you would.”

  The head of the Greycloaks walked past every engraved pew in the church and stood before the High Cardinal, dropping to a knee before removing his gilded helmet and meeting the sunken eyes of the elder man. The Greycloak was gaunt, wearing a haggard expression, with a series of vicious scars sliced across his otherwise pristine face. His white hair clung loosely to his balding scalp, and half of his face was covered in a permanent burn mark that he’d rejected any healing on. To look upon him was to look upon a ruin of a man – a sacred temple built of polished marble that had been defaced, defiled, and debased – and yet still stood strong. Most of his enemies turned tail and ran when they saw him, for they knew that within those scarred eyes they saw their own death coming for them one slow, laborious step at a time.

  “Lord Commander Garviel,” Remiel said. “You bow before no man within this hallowed chamber.”

  Garviel nodded sternly, rising before the aged priest. At his full height, he was at least three meters taller than the old man.

  “Our quest is complete,” he said. “Though not without the sacrifice of my men. Good men. Loyal men.”

  Remiel closed his eyes in quiet sorrow. “You must tell us of what you have seen in the outside these past months,” he said. “Your Brothers will be honored for their sacrifice and will sit with the Lord in his gilded Hall above.”

  Garviel gave a bestial grunt.

  “Doesn’t do us much good if they’re up there,” he said. “The fact is, they’re dead. And I must explain to their families for what reason they gave up their lives.”

  Remiel smiled in the face of the Commander’s harsh tone. Even with all the power and wisdom he had at his disposal, this was still the resident Commander of the Greycloaks. He could slice through half of this city before the Council could do a thing to stop him. If they could stop him at all.

  “I understand that the demise of the Westerweald order still weighs upon your heart,” Remiel replied. “But take solace – in the completion of your duty, you have brought us victory.”

  “I would like to believe that, High Cardinal. As would my men. The acquisition of our cargo was not without complications.”

  Both of them looked towards the three wagons where something had started wriggling under the tarpaulins. Suddenly, much to the shock of the assembled Greys, a roar emanated from the wagon with the largest covering.

  “The spells of sedation are wearing off,” Garviel said.

  “Then it is time,” Remiel nodded, motioning towards the very back room of the church which the serving boys dutifully opened. “Let the Conclave commence.”

  …

  In another room of the Grand Cathedral, Cardinal Langley sat in his confessional booth.

  He’d waited for this moment for three long months. Yet still, knowing that tonight was indeed the night, he felt his entire body shake with trepidation.

  Is it excitement, second thoughts, or…just plain fear? he thought.

  The dreams had gotten more vivid, lately. In them he could see the Dark Angel flying closer and closer to the city, watching them with sorrow in his heart, wishing that they would open themselves to him and his new order. He’d managed to conceal such dreams from his Brothers and Sisters, though he couldn’t conceal his sweating palms and general terror after the first few sleepless night he had. The position of the Cardinals was that such prophetic dreams were poisonous to the mind – and spoke of nothing more than a failure of human spirit on the part of those who believed in what they saw.

  But Langley had eventually come to understand what the dreams truly meant. And eventually, he had rejoiced in them. He had understood them as presenting a solution to the problem he’d had for all his life.

  And when he’d heard the voice of the angel, it was as though he was listening to his own consciousness for the first time in his entire life.

  The creaky door of the confessional booth opening snapped him back to the reality of the room and the darkness. He shook his head, closed his eyes, and got ready to do his job.

  “What troubles you, child of Kaedmon?”

  No answer. He glanced sidelong at the figure’s shadow, seeing nothing out of the ordinary at first.

  “Speak freely, child,” he said. “For what reason do you find yourself here?”

  This time, the silence that followed went on for what seemed like an eternity. Langley furrowed his brows, thinking perhaps that the pain of this citizen was perhaps too much to put into mere words. So he allowed a few more seconds to pass before he decided he’d repeat the question.

  Before he could say a thing, however, the figure spoke:

  “Freedom,” it said.

  Langley froze. He turned to see the shadow of the civilian, and he found that what was looking at him wasn’t human at all.

  More accurately, it wore the shape of a human, its eyes were dulled, dead, lifeless. All he could see was a single red eye poking out from the middle of the vaguely human face.

  “By the Allfather…”

  The specter’s lips moved once more in response:

  “Langley,” it said. “It is time.”