Chapter 32: The Call

  “For the hundredth time, I DON’T KNOW WHY I WAS LYING IN THAT FUCKING SUMMONING CIRCLE!”

  Nathanel Veyth sat in a dim room on a wooden stool. Opposite him, across a small table, sat a hooded man who had introduced himself only as Lucien, an inquisitor from the Church. Two rough-looking town guards stood by the door behind Nathanel, their eyes fixed on him like hounds waiting for a command.

  Lucien’s voice was deep and smooth, yet carried that faint rasp of someone used to smoke or incense. “Nathanel, you surely understand the matter is serious. As a fellow child of the Holy Church, you understand the importance of truth in such situations.”

  Nathanel scoffed. “As I said, I have nothing to do with the Church anymore. I left Veythral long ago as a Brother Emeritus. It was on good terms and properly sanctioned. Whatever happened here—”

  “Nathanel,” Lucien interrupted softly, “as a former brother, of course I believe you. But you understand that I must verify your claim. And how suspicious it looks that you ‘don’t remember’ how supposedly two cultists met with you, overpowered you, and dragged you into a foul ritual?”

  At those words, Nathanel’s hand slid slowly to his face. His fingers brushed against the rough skin—burns that stretched along his cheek and neck. He still hadn’t had the chance to look into a mirror, but he already feared what he’d see.

  “You don’t think I’d do this to myself, do you?” he said quietly, his voice low and strained.

  Lucien didn’t answer right away. The small oil lamp between them flickered, casting long shadows across the walls. “Self-inflicted pain is not uncommon, especially when demons are involved. The faithful fall, and when they do, they burn everything they once were. Tell me, Nathanel, what do you remember before the fire?”

  They had been sitting here since yesterday evening, with only one or two short breaks to rest, circling around the same questions again and again. The problem was simple: Nathanel had nothing new to give.

  He only remembered going to bed the night before last, and everything until yesterday midday—when they found him—was completely gone. For him, it felt like he had gone to sleep and simply woken up in hell. Besides, the Church’s attention was the last thing he wanted. When he had left Veythral, it hadn’t been on good terms. He had forged a few documents, taken a few valuable things with him, and fled halfway across the continent just to be left alone.

  Now all of that effort was wasted.

  Lucien had likely already sent a message back to Veythral, and once the Ecclesia confirmed his name, the rest would follow. There were still warrants there—minor ones—but enough for the wrong people to start asking the right questions.

  Nathanel rubbed his temples, his patience long gone. “We’ve been at this for hours, Lucien. I told you everything I know. I don’t remember. There’s nothing else.”

  Before Lucien could start another circle of questions, a knock came from the door. One of the guards opened it, and a young boy in a plain gray robe stepped inside. He moved quickly, head lowered, and hurried to the inquisitor’s side. The boy whispered something into Lucien’s ear.

  Lucien’s eyes widened for a brief second before he masked it again and looked toward Nathanel. The boy bowed and left without another word.

  Lucien straightened slowly, his gloved hands resting on the table. “Well, Nathanel,” he said in a tone that suddenly carried more weight, “tell me about Lysaria Greenwood. What do you know about her?”

  Nathanel frowned. “Nothing. I’m hearing that name for the first time in my life.”

  Lucien smiled faintly, almost amused. “Of course, you are.”

  He stood up and adjusted his cloak. “You know what, we’ll take a short break here. I have another visit to make today, so we’ll see each other later, yes?” His tone was casual, like he was inviting him for dinner.

  “I hope not,” Nathanel muttered under his breath.

  Lucien only chuckled, gave him a small wink, and turned toward the door. “Faith willing, we’ll see.”

  The inquisitor left the room, the guards following him out, and the sound of the latch closing echoed through the small chamber.

  ???

  The plaza before Veythral’s cathedral was packed with people. Two hundred Crusaders knelt in perfect rows, both hands on the hilts of their swords, blades tipped into the packed earth. Their armor caught the morning light and threw it back in a thousand small stars. Behind them, banners with the Ecclesia’s sigil snapped in the chill wind. Above them all stood the Holy Saint Liora on a marble dais, her silver hair flowing freely. She lifted her chin and looked down at the kneeling ranks. Her voice rang out clear and steady, cutting through the low murmur of the crowd watching the spectacle.

  “Crusaders,” she called. “You answered the call. For that I am grateful.”

  She let the words hang for a heartbeat, then went on. “Today we march north, to the Kingdom of Burm. This is not a routine patrol. We have reports that remnants of the fallen Empire of Xares still endure. Old powers do not always sleep. If this is true, their adherents corrupt what they touch. They twist the land, and they turn the hearts of men.”

  Her gaze swept the ranks slow. “We also have reason to believe at least one among them is Ascended. Reports name an elf who calls herself Lysaria Greenwood. She appeared from nowhere. She has declared the guild [Doomsday] active—a guild long believed defunct for more than five hundred years—and she claims the mantle of the old empire. Whether that is rumor or truth, we will not wait to be proved wrong. We do not falter because danger is only a whisper. We do not shrink because the past calls. We stand, and we go.”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Liora’s voice grew firmer. “We go to verify the report. We go to protect the faithful. We go because by naming herself heir to the old empire, she has set herself against every realm that bled to end it. No uprising is tolerated. We will shield every believer of the Goddess from unclean hands and unholy rites. Where there is doubt, we bring counsel. Where corruption spreads, we bring the light the Church commands. Where the innocent suffer, we will be their sword.”

  She lifted a hand and unfurled the holy banner at her side. The men and women kneeling looked up as if drawn by the sight. “In light of this work, and because of the danger we face, I declare this mission a crusade. Prepare yourselves. Remember what we fight for. Remember the vows we swore in the name of the Goddess.”

  Her tone leveled, steady and cold. “Do not mistake this for a march of legions. We will not wait to gather an army. We act now, with speed and precision. Our enemies are likely few, but they are strong. Even an Ascended guild—no, not even a Transcendent guild—will stand against the full weight of this crusade when we strike as one. We must move before the brood gathers under a single banner again.”

  A long silence followed, filled with the sound of armor settling and the wind in the banners. Then Liora raised her head and spoke. “Stand.”

  Blades rose together, tips still set to the earth. The Crusaders held for a breath, as if drawing strength from the city itself. Then, in a single movement, every helmet lifted and every voice gave the word she had not spoken but expected.

  “For the Goddess!” they shouted, strong, rough, and raw.

  “For the Goddess,” Liora echoed, and this time the cry rolled across the plaza like thunder.

  Trumpets answered from the cathedral towers. Priests moved along the lines, touching pauldrons and murmuring short blessings. Wagons were readied. Captains snapped orders. Riders mounted. The banners were fixed to their poles and carried forward. The neat rows folded into marching columns, the host turning as one toward the northern road.

  Liora stood at the edge of the plaza, watching the preparations unfold. The sound of armor and shouted orders filled the air. She let out a quiet breath, unseen behind the calm mask she wore for the crowd. The speech had been dramatic—more than she would have liked—but necessary.

  Normally, the return of a guild from the old days, even one claiming ties to the fallen Empire of Xares, would not justify something as drastic as a crusade. Yet her divination had shown her what waited if she hesitated. The Goddess had revealed a vision of war—cities burning and shadows spreading across the land like a tide. If she acted quickly, if she struck before this Lysaria Greenwood gathered followers beneath the banner of the old empire, she might still prevent the continent from descending into chaos again. Of course, that would only hold true if this elf was truly the one the vision had warned her about. But for now, it was the best lead she had, and she would not ignore it.

  Her silver eyes drifted to the foremost wagons. The two inquisitors, Salan and Marius, were already mounted and waiting near the front, speaking quietly with the captains. Their faces were hidden beneath white hoods, the seals of the Ecclesia marked bright against the sunlight. They would ride with her as the Church’s eyes and judgment, ensuring every act of the crusade remained sanctioned.

  Beside them stood a smaller figure, adjusting a heavy satchel against her shoulder. Miza Veyth looked almost out of place. But Liora had insisted she come. Without the young Cryptscribe’s keen eye, they would never have noticed the account movement or traced the guild’s reactivation so swiftly.

  As the horns sounded again, signaling the departure, Liora straightened her cloak. Her gaze lingered one last time on the cathedral towers behind her. “May the Goddess guide our steps,” she murmured under her breath. She turned and walked toward the waiting horses.

  The Holy Saint of Veythral took her place at the head of the crusade, and as the gates of the holy city opened, two hundred Crusaders followed her into the rising dawn.

  ???

  The tavern was dim and smelled faintly of spilled ale and damp wood, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes long after you leave. In a corner where the light barely reached, two men sat facing each other at a table pressed tight against a wall with a long crack running down it. Their cloaks were wet from the rain and worn from travel, also plain, meant to keep eyes from lingering too long. They spoke too softly for anyone to catch more than a murmur.

  “Did you hear the rumors?” one of them asked, keeping his hood low as he leaned in.

  The other man raised a brow. “Which ones? There are always rumors. Bandits, monsters, taxes.”

  “No, not that.” The first man glanced toward the door before speaking again. “The Covenant. They are preparing for war.”

  That made the other pause. He set his cup down slowly. “For war? Why would they prepare for war? They have not moved in years.”

  “I don’t know,” the first said, shaking his head. “But word is, they’re gathering their forces again. Not quietly either. They’ve sent out a call to arms for anyone who still bears the symbol of Catacrum. Someone’s pulling the Covenant back together, and they’re heading north.”

  “North? What is there?” the second man asked, frowning. “Varnathi? Burm?”

  “Yes. To Burm.”

  The man gave a short laugh. “That empty kingdom? There’s nothing there but farmers. Why would the Covenant waste its strength on a place like that?”

  “That’s what everyone is asking,” the first replied. “But I heard it from a reliable source. They are moving openly. And the number of followers they’re pulling together... it’s been centuries since they risked so much attention.”

  The second leaned back, his tone quieter now. “If that is true, then something big is stirring. The Covenant does not march for nothing.”

  The first nodded, eyes flicking toward the flickering hearth. “Some say they are after an artifact buried under Burm. Others claim it’s about the old empire—that someone out there has called it back from the grave.”

  The second scoffed lightly, though unease edged his voice. “The empire has been dust for three hundred years. Let the ghosts keep it.”

  “Maybe,” the first said. “But when the Covenant moves, it is never without purpose. And if they go north, I think Burm won’t stay quiet for long.”

  They fell silent for a moment, the fire hissing between them. Then the second man leaned forward, voice low and careful.

  “What do you think,” he asked, “should the Order answer Catacrum’s call?”

  The first pulled on his cup and stared at the stain on the table. “It is a risk,” he said slowly. “But maybe it is time to show that old alliances still hold. The Covenant will not move for a rumor. If they are truly gathering, someone has put a hand to the wheel.”

  The second nodded. “We could provide the Covenant with undead.”

  The first barked a short laugh that had no humor in it. “Undead? You mean send the horde?”

  “Yes,” the second said. “Three hundred, well raised and bound. They would owe us a debt.” He watched the other for a long beat.

  “That would expose us,” the first said bluntly.

  “Maybe,” the second admitted. “But what is the alternative? Another three hundred years of torpor? Let the world decide the shape of its fate without us?”

  A low, rough laugh escaped the first man. “You are bold. And you are mad. But you are right. If the Covenant answers, we’ll be important again. If they refuse, we’ll disappear back into the darkness.”

  He straightened and tapped a scrap of paper with a finger. “Tell your information dealer to warn the Covenant. Say we are willing to provide three hundred bound as a token of old kinship. Ask where and when they gather. If they accept, we will move fast. If they refuse, we burn the message and go back to being ghosts.”

  “Agreed,” the second said, relief and something like hunger in his voice. He pushed a crown across the table. “I will send the word tonight.”

  They rose, pulled their cloaks tight, and stepped out of the tavern into the rain.