Three days later.
In the town of Orlando, there were no bells this morning. No morning prayers. Only a heavy, suffocating silence hung in the frigid air.
Scarlett and her group, cloaked in heavy hoods and heads bowed low, moved within the frantic, shuffling crowd. They had arrived late last night, intending to slip into the chapel under the cover of darkness, only to find it ringed by Templars. It was a fortress of silver steel.
"What's happening?" Kula whispered, tugging on Scarlett's sleeve. "Why is everyone running to the square? It feels like a festival, but everyone looks like they're going to a funeral."
Eris's voice drifted from the other side: "Sothing is wrong. Horribly wrong."
Nearby, townsfolk gathered in small, huddled groups. They spoke in hushed, jagged whispers, but fragnts of their terror drifted to the succubi's ears.
"Gods... are they truly going to burn the girl from the chapel?"
"She was a good soul. When I threw out my back, she was the one who helped ho."
"Good? She's a succubus! A creature of the Abyss! They exist only to seduce the righteous and invite calamity!"
"But she never did a single wicked thing! She only ever helped us..."
Scarlett exchanged a look with her sisters. They followed the flow of the crowd toward the Central Plaza.
The square was a sea of people. A massive circle had been ford, leaving a wide, empty space in the center. In the exact midpoint of that space stood a towering wooden stake in the shape of a cross. At its base sat a pile of dry kindling and straw, drenched in oil.
Danica was bound to the stake.
She wore a clean, white prisoner's shift, her hair combed back with heartbreaking care. Beneath the hair, the two small, black horns were stark and unmistakable under the morning sun.
Scarlett's heart sank into her stomach. Kula's eyes went wide, her hands flying to cover her mouth.
"They're going to... burn her?" Kula whimpered. "But... our dinner..."
Chloe elbowed her sharply in the ribs before she could finish the thought.
Scarlett paid them no mind. Her gaze was locked on the silver figure standing before the pyre.
Sir Ross. The Inquisitor of the Holy Capital. A Tier 4 Paladin.
Ross stepped forward, his voice projected with the weight of a decree.
"Danica."
The na rang through every alleyway of the square.
"Before you undergo the ritual of purification, have you any final words for the Spirits?"
Danica lifted her head. She looked at Ross, then scanned the faces of the townsfolk. Her eyes searched the crowd as if looking for a specific face. Finally, she gave a slow, gentle shake of her head.
She rembered the days of being sold as rchandise. She rembered the cold iron and the numb, endless journey. Her ti in Orlando had been a stolen dream. Now, it was ti to wake up. Perhaps this was the only destination ever intended for a creature like her.
Danica closed her eyes. "I have nothing to say. Proceed with haste."
Her voice was a calm flatline, devoid of fear or regret.
Ross nodded, offering no further plea. He took a step back and addressed the crowd.
"According to the Holy Codex, before a heretic is purified by the fla, the faithful may use the stones of the earth to wash away the filth she has brought to this land!"
He paused, waiting for the first rock to fly.
One second.
Two seconds.
Ten seconds.
The square was terrifyingly quiet. No one moved. No one reached for a stone.
In the crowd, little Jamie gripped his mother's skirt so hard his knuckles were white. Tears pooled in his eyes. His mother pulled him into a fierce embrace, turning her head away, unable to bear the sight.
The blacksmith who had received Danica's bread bowed his head. The elderly woman who had listened to Danica's stories made the sign of the cross in silence.
Ross watched this, his expression remaining a mask of stone. He offered no lecture, no rebuke. He simply turned and accepted a flaming torch from a subordinate.
"Since no hand will be raised, I shall act as the proxy for Holy Retribution."
Ross raised the torch, beginning his stride toward the kindling.
"STOP!"
Scarlett could no longer contain herself. She shoved past the person in front of her, ready to lunge into the circle.
In that exact mont—a sudden, violent intervention.
A blade of piercing light manifested out of thin air, whistling through the sky before slamming into the ground between Ross and the stake.
BOOM!
Dirt and gravel erupted into the air, carving a half-ter deep trench in the stone. Ross skidded back, raising an arm to shield his eyes from the spray. The torch fell, extinguished in the dirt.
A figure burst from the crowd with a reckless, unrefined speed.
It was Cecilia.
She delivered a sharp, snapping kick to a Templar who tried to intercept her, sending him tumbling. She skidded to a halt in front of the stake, her presence as a Tier 3 Warrior exploding outward without restraint. She shielded Danica with her body, crossing her arms defiantly.
"I went through a hell of a lot of trouble to find the perfect partner," Cecilia snarled. "I'm not letting you torch her just because you're bored!"
The crowd stared, dumbfounded. The usually graceful, albeit lazy, Sister was... a monster?
Ross didn't look at the raging Cecilia. His gaze bypassed the chaos, locking onto the rear of the crowd.
There, Father Anchi was slowly walking forward.
He wasn't wearing his spotless, eternal priestly robes. He wore only a simple white shirt and black trousers. He looked like an ordinary civilian. Upon his palms, the fading embers of the Holy Art he had just discharged still shimred.
One Hour Earlier.
Inside his room, Anchi had stood by the window. His eyes didn't see the horizon.
He saw Danica busy in the kitchen.
He saw Cecilia sprawled on a bench eating an apple.
He saw the three of them bickering in the narthex.
Anchi sighed. He set down the Holy Scriptures of Rostarn. He walked to his wardrobe and stripped off the robes that defined his life and his status. He folded them with ticulous care and placed them on the bed, giving the fabric a final, lingering pat.
Anchi walked to the door. He whispered a sequence of runes toward the gap. A sphere of soft, hypnotic light seeped through the crack. There was a dull sound of shifting weight from the corridor.
He waited five seconds, then pulled the door open. The two Templars guarding him were slumped against the wall, lost in a magical slumber. Anchi ghosted past them, making no sound.
He reached Cecilia's room. He didn't knock; he shoved the door open.
The room was a wreck, white fluff from a burst pillow covering the floor like snow. Cecilia was face-down on the bed, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Anchi walked over, yanked the pillow from beneath her head, and tossed it aside.
"Why are you making that face?"
Cecilia lifted her head, her face a mask of tears and raw fury. "Mind your business! Get out! Let rot in peace!"
Anchi ignored the scream. He simply extended his hand toward her.
"Sister Cecilia... it seems a devoted lamb has wandered away from our chapel."
Cecilia stared at the outstretched hand, her breath hitching. Anchi offered a small, knowing smile.
"Would you care to accompany to bring her ho?"
Cecilia looked at his face—that annoying, punchable face she saw every day. She sniffled, wiped her eyes, and gripped his hand as she stood up.
"Of course, Father Anchi," she whispered. "Let's go bring our wayward lamb ho."
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