In a fluid motion, the man outstretched his hand to Lugh.
Lugh rely stared at it, unmoving, unreadable behind the veil that masked his face.
An awkward silence settled in the air like dust refusing to fall. Isolde nudged him sharply with her elbow.
"It’s a handshake"
She whispered.
"I know"
Lugh replied simply.
"So no handshake?"
The man asked, voice still light, but curiosity flickering beneath.
Lugh gave no reply.
The man chuckled dryly, raising the sa hand to scratch the back of his neck. His voice turned slow, layered with intent.
"I heard a priest here ran mad not too long ago. Claid he saw demons."
"Sorry to interrupt"
Isolde cut in briskly, stepping forward, her tone dismissive but edged.
"But we have to go."
She reached for Lugh’s hand, ready to lead him away, but the man halted them with nothing but his voice.
It was no longer affable. It was cold, hollow and heavy.
"What do you hope to achieve by coming here... to the Church of Ember Creed?"
Isolde stiffened. A chill slithered down her spine despite the warm sumr air. This was why she hated this place.
Lugh, however, didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps he did—but did not care.
He tilted his head, and spoke with a cadence that shifted the atmosphere around them, as if the world itself recoiled from the truth within his words.
"I want to see what love becos when it’s stripped of all its lies."
The man blinked in surprise.
Then he burst into laughter, uproarious, feral, uncontained. It echoed strangely against the cathedral walls.
"Ah... so that’s how you’ve stayed sane,"
He said between laughs.
"Quite impressive."
He grinned.
"Allpw to introduce myself. My na is... hmm. You may call Draq."
Lugh nodded once. The na anchored itself into his mind like a symbol etched into stone.
"What should I call you?"
"Lugh."
"Lugh?"
"Lugh."
Draq repeated the na under his breath, then simply nodded. The unseen pressure that had gripped the air between them faded without warning.
"I hope you find what you’re looking for,"
Draq said, smiling once more, but this ti with a shade of reverence.
"May the fla guide you."
Lugh remained silent.
He followed Isolde as they entered the cathedral. No one else accompanied them, not their guards, not their servants.
Those who entered did so of their own free will, drawn by personal reasons. They scattered into isolated pews, distant from one another, as if unity itself was a sin here.
As soon as Lugh and Isolde stepped inside, the heavens released a deluge. Rain thundered on the stained glass high above.
And yet the cathedral interior was warm. To warm.
The sermon began.
The preacher’s voice was like kindling catching fire. Soft, then rising.
"From ash we rose, by fire we are tempered. Let those with cold hearts be cast out, for warmth is the mark of grace."
Incense billowed from braziers shaped like open palms. Flas flickered within unique lanterns. A choir chanted in the background, voices weaving in and out of unison like smoke trying to form a shape.
"Fire sears. Fire sanctifies. It is agony. It is comfort. It is love in its purest form—uncompromising."
The preacher’s eyes seed to glow. The audience leaned forward, srized ...or mad.
"Fire brings warmth. Love brings warmth. Fire is love. Love is fire!"
The sermon ended as abruptly as it began.
Lugh and Isolde rose wordlessly and walked out.
Lugh scanned the courtyard, seeking a familiar presence, but Draq had already vanished.
Outside, the rain had intensified. It poured down like grief made physical. A haze like mist crawled low across the ground.
They could have taken shelter in the cathedral, but Isolde was adamant. She refused to remain there for even another second.
Lugh, with a glance, followed.
As they advanced through the rain-slick streets, a distant clamor began to rise. At first, it was faint, like the city itself murmuring, but soon it grew into a chaotic roar.
Their carriage halted suddenly, wheels skidding across wet cobblestone.
"What is going on?"
Isolde asked, raising her voice over the echo of steel.
A well-dressed servant approached their carriage, bypassing the guards under the permission of Isolde.
His manners were impeccable. Flawless even. Only the shimr in his eyes betrayed the malice within.
"There is a riot just ahead, my lady."
Isolde’s brows knit.
"A riot? In this storm? At a ti like this?"
Through the mist, the mob revealed itself.
It was no re crowd.
They could see the edges of it from a distance, like the periter of a spreading wildfire. The city guard clashed with insurgents under the rain.
Swords glead. Screams rang out. Blood mixed with water, running in streaks down the gutters.
Ophris, especially in Pyrellis, was known for its extrely strict gun laws. Only military units held the right to bear them.
This created the scene before them, where guards bore rifles, but their opponents ca ard with swords, axes, hamrs, and hatred.
rchants, bakers, stonemasons.
The working castes had risen. Their eyes were fevered. Their anger burned hotter than the fla they were taught to worship.
"We should take a detour,"
Soone suggested.
"Wait,"
Isolde muttered, her tone cutting through the clamor. Sothing about this felt wrong. Too sudden, too perfect.
After a few tense minutes of hushed conversation and realignnts, they began again, more vigilant than before.
But the riot had spilled over like floodwater. Streets were cut off, alleyways blocked. The city funneled them into narrower and narrower paths.
Then—
Ice.
The horses’ hooves struck an unseen patch. They slipped, panic snorting from their nostrils. The carriage rocked violently, nearly toppling.
"What was th—"
The guard’s words died in his throat.
From balconies. From window ledges. From atop the surrounding walls—they erged.
Dozens. Maybe more. Shadowy figures cloaked in damp robes, their faces obscured, their gazes burning with silent intent.
Unmoving. Watching. Waiting.
The rain hamred down. Mist veiled their forms like shrouds.
A sound broke through as swords were drawn from their sheates.
The Von Heim guards ford a circle, weapons out, eyes darting.
Things had taken a dangerous turn
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