Al-Miraj. The streets burning. The air thick with gunpowder and blood.
He moved through the city like a ghost, his boots crushing spent bullet casings, his sword slick with what he no longer thought of as human. The orders had been clear: no survivors. The enemy had surrendered, raised their hands, thrown down their weapons.
It didn’t matter.
The templars advanced with the cold precision of trained killers. Burn the heretics. Root out corruption. Deliver the Goddess' justice.
One by one, the bodies fell. Men who had fought. Men who had tried to run. Men who had begged.
And then—the boy.
Maybe eight. Maybe younger. A child, crouched behind his father’s corpse, too terrified to cry, his small hands pressed over his ears like he could block out the sound of dying.
Araeius remembered standing over him. The way the barrel of his gun hovered over dark hair, small shoulders trembling in the dust.
He remembered the boy looking up. Not with fear. Not with pleading.
With hatred.
That was when he always woke up.
—
Araeius inhaled sharply, the cold sweat drying against his skin. The room was dark, save for the slivers of moonlight filtering through the blinds, casting soft, silver lines across the sheets.
Beside him, Mélanie stirred. She shifted under the blankets, eyes half-lidded, her verdant gaze flickering over his face.
She didn’t ask if he was okay. She already knew the answer.
Instead, she reached out, fingertips brushing over his wrist. A quiet touch, something grounding. Something real.
"Stay," she murmured.
Araeius exhaled. A slow, measured breath. Then, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood.
Mélanie watched him silently as he reached for his pants, pulling them on with practiced ease. She pulled the blanket closer around herself, but nothing about her posture suggested she was cold.
"You know," she said, voice still thick with sleep, "you’re allowed to have bad dreams, Araeius."
He scoffed, heading for the door. If she wanted a real conversation, it wasn’t happening here.
—
The kitchen was pristine.
Every surface curated, every utensil in its place. The cool grey of industrial concrete met the warm earth tones of wood paneling, a contrast of control and nature. Even the lighting was deliberate—soft, adjustable, calculated for atmosphere.
Araeius moved through it with the precision of a man whose life depended on structure.
He started with the matcha, whisking the fine green powder into a bowl of steaming water, watching the froth form in delicate patterns before mixing it with Kyōsakan whole milk. A ritual. A rhythm.
Then, the shake. Kale, honey, berries, banana, coconut water. Each measured to perfection. Everything designed. Everything controlled.
The blender whirred low as Mélanie entered, her bare feet silent against the wooden floor.
She had thrown on one of his shirts—the fabric loose against her frame, brushing the tops of her thighs. Her red hair was still a mess, but a controlled one. One she had chosen.
She leaned against the counter, arms loosely folded. "Guess we’re not going back to bed."
Araeius glanced at her, then smirked. "There are other things we can do. Could even do it in the kitchen."
Mélanie didn’t miss a beat. "Yes," she said, voice dry. "We can talk."
Araeius sighed, setting the whisk down. "That wasn’t quite what I had in mind."
Mélanie stepped forward, plucking the matcha bowl from the counter before he could reach for it. She cradled it in both hands, sipping slowly, then hummed.
"It’s getting worse."
Araeius didn’t react. Didn’t acknowledge it. He reached for the shake instead, stirring it once before drinking.
Mélanie watched him. Waiting.
"You’re not even going to pretend?"
Araeius set the glass down. "I’ve got it under control."
Mélanie exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head. "Of course you do."
The silence stretched.
Then—"Still hunting the prince?"
Araeius’ jaw flexed slightly. "Working on it."
Mélanie leaned against the counter, tilting her head. "And when exactly are you getting around to seeing your brother?"
Araeius scoffed. "When the realm runs out of honest people, I’ll turn to that criminal."
Mélanie smirked faintly. "The way things are going, that time will probably come pretty soon."
Then—his phone rang.
Araeius exhaled, grabbing it off the counter. Unknown number, but familiar protocol.
He answered. "Braythar."
A voice crackled on the other end, formal, clipped. "Ser Braythar, you’re needed for briefing at the cathedral. Immediate priority."
Araeius straightened slightly. "What’s the situation?"
"Apostate activity. Blood magic."
Araeius sighed. "Understood. On my way."
The line went dead.
Mélanie, still nursing her drink, arched a brow. "The church holds a lot of things sacred. Working hours aren’t one of them."
Araeius smirked faintly, grabbing his coat. "Emergency. Reported apostate activity."
Mélanie hummed. "Hard to believe anyone practices blood magic in this day and age."
Araeius slipped his arms into the coat, rolling his shoulders. "Desperation leads people to desperate things."
Mélanie exhaled through her nose, setting the cup down with a soft click.
Then—she leaned against the counter, watching him.
"Do you ever think about leaving?"
Araeius stilled.
Not a visible change. Not an obvious reaction. But a shift.
He looked at her—not sharply, not angrily. But guarded.
"The Inquisition?" he asked, as if the question itself was absurd.
Mélanie exhaled, crossing her arms. "Everything. The church. The war. The ghosts you keep dragging around like they owe you something."
Araeius let out a quiet, humourless chuckle. "What would I do, Mél? Work in insurance?"
Mélanie didn’t smile. Didn’t break eye contact.
"Maybe you’d sleep through the night."
That did something.
His grip on his coat flexed slightly. A fraction of hesitation. A second too long.
Then—he turned away first.
He grabbed his keys off the counter. "I’ll see you later, Mél."
She didn’t try to stop him.
She just sighed, pushing off the counter and heading back toward the bedroom.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Araeius exhaled.
The milk was still steaming.
The shake sat untouched.
Then, he left.
The city never truly slept, but at this hour, it was caught in the quiet space between night and dawn. The streets of Leonidas were bathed in artificial gold, streetlights standing vigilant against the encroaching dark.
Araeius drove in silence, one hand resting loose on the wheel, the other adjusting the dial on the radio. Static. He flicked it off. Outside, the world moved in hushed tones—late-night workers trudging home, delivery trucks making early rounds, the occasional enforcer patrol rolling past. The light kept the shadows at bay, but he knew better than to believe they were gone.
He turned onto the cathedral’s avenue, the towering silhouette of the Grand Cathedral rising above the city like a monument to order. Stained glass caught the glow of passing headlights, saints and martyrs painted in fractured hues. The spire loomed high, its golden cross reflecting the cold fluorescence of the street lamps.
At the base of the steps, a black SUV idled, its engine low, its frame marked with the sigil of the Inquisition. Araeius pulled up behind it, shifting into park. He killed the engine but didn’t move immediately.
Instead, he exhaled, resting his wrist against the steering wheel for a moment. The weight of the morning settled in his bones—dreams of Al-Miraj still clawing at the edges of his thoughts, Mélanie’s voice still echoing in his ears.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Then, with practiced ease, he stepped out of the car.
The cold air met him first. A sharp contrast to the warmth of the vehicle.
He adjusted his coat, squared his shoulders, and ascended the cathedral steps.
The cathedral doors groaned as Araeius pushed them open.
Inside, the vast chamber stretched into dim-lit silence. Even in the darkness, the high-vaulted ceiling loomed overhead, its gothic arches framing stained-glass windows that only caught the faintest hints of the city’s glow. The scent of old incense clung to the air—candle wax, aged stone, and something else. Something like dust and memory.
His footsteps echoed as he moved down the central aisle. It was a strange thing, stepping into a place like this at this hour. By day, the cathedral was full of movement—priests murmuring prayers, pilgrims lighting candles, the devout kneeling in whispered supplication. But now? Now, it was empty. Hollow. The silence was not peaceful. It was expectant.
Araeius had been here many times before. And yet, he had never found the Goddess waiting for him.
He made his way toward the front, where the amber glow of oil lamps pooled at the base of the altar. Two men stood there, their hushed conversation low, reverent in tone, but not in purpose.
Captain Jordan Leigh turned first. He was a tall man, lean but sharp-shouldered, his uniform immaculate despite the ungodly hour. There was something permanently wry about his features, the kind of face that had seen too much and decided the only way to survive was through humor.
Ser Aiden Gilligan stood beside him, shifting his weight impatiently. Young, brash, and entirely too eager for the work they did, Aiden had the cocksure air of someone who had never truly lost. He was a man who still thought battle was glory, that righteousness and violence walked hand in hand. Araeius wondered how long that would last.
Leigh saw him approach and smirked. "Braythar, you look like shit."
Araeius exhaled through his nose. "Long night."
"Yeah, well, it’s about to get longer." Leigh gestured loosely. "We’ve got a situation. Apostate activity in the countryside. Small village called Prairieford."
Araeius rolled his shoulders. "And if we find her?"
Leigh met his gaze, expression unreadable. "That’ll be entirely up to her."
The answer was as expected as it was empty.
"First light, we move out," Leigh continued. "Until then, speak with the quartermaster. Gear up."
Araeius nodded once, turning toward the shadowed corridor that led downward. Aiden fell in beside him, a smirk playing at the younger templar’s lips.
"Country work, huh?" Aiden mused. "This’ll be a fun one."
Araeius didn’t respond.
They descended into the cathedral’s undercroft, past the stone archways that framed ancient halls, past the hidden corridors that led where the public never tread. Down here, the air changed. Gone was the scent of incense and candle smoke. Here, everything smelled of cold metal, oil, and gunpowder.
At the bottom of the stairwell, they reached the door.
A heavy steel bulkhead, reinforced and bolted, its surface lined with rune etchings that shimmered faintly in the dim light. A biometric scanner sat at its center. Araeius pressed his palm against it, the mechanism whirring softly as it read his identity.
A pause. Then—a click.
The locks disengaged, and the door slid open.
They stepped into the Inquisition’s headquarters beneath Leonidas.
The undercroft was an armoury. A war room. Rows of equipment lined the reinforced walls—firearms, shields, blessed relics, weapons of both modern and ancient design. Tactical maps flickered on digital screens, and templars in black-stitched fatigues moved through the space with practiced efficiency.
The quartermaster’s station was at the far end, a long steel counter separating the armoury’s inventory from those who sought it. Behind it, Pablo, a gruff man in his late fifties, was already waiting. His face was weathered, lined with old scars, his greying beard trimmed short. He had the look of an ex-soldier—because he was one.
"Braythar. Gilligan." Pablo’s voice was like crushed gravel. "You’re late."
"Technically, we’re early," Aiden quipped, leaning against the counter.
Pablo ignored him. Instead, he grabbed two heavy-duty cases from beneath the counter and slid them forward with a dull thunk. "Standard loadout. Try not to break anything this time."
Araeius unlatched his case, flipping the lid open. Inside, neatly arranged:
- Three AMP (Anti-Magic Pulse) grenades—small, silver-cased, capable of disrupting arcane energy within a five-meter radius.
- An AR-15 assault rifle—matte black, pristine, the magazines loaded with blessed rounds.
- A .45 caliber pistol—sleek, dependable.
- And finally—the templar’s signature weapon.
A retractable shield gauntlet.
Araeius pulled it free from its case, feeling the weight of it in his hand. The design was compact, reinforced plating fitted into a wrist-mounted brace. With a practiced flick of his arm, the mechanism snapped open—a shield unfolding in a perfect arc, locking into place with a deep, mechanical clunk.
Aiden whistled, grinning. "Still don’t get how that thing works."
Araeius turned it over in his palm before retracting it with a single motion. The shield collapsed inward, magnetically locking back into the gauntlet’s core. "It works well enough."
Aiden grabbed one of the AMP grenades, rolling it between his fingers. "Think we’ll need these?"
"Think before you pull the fucking pin," Pablo growled.
Aiden smirked but set the grenade back.
Araeius holstered his pistol, slung the rifle over his shoulder, then palmed one of the AMP grenades before pocketing it.
Pablo crossed his arms. "You know the drill. If she cooperates, bring her in. If she doesn’t…" He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Araeius met his gaze. "I know."
Leigh’s words lingered in his mind.
That’ll be entirely up to her.
The question was: did she know that?
Araeius exhaled, tightening the strap of his rifle.
At first light, they would find out.
The first hints of sunlight stretched over the Leonidas skyline, painting the steel-and-stone metropolis in muted gold. Araeius drove, the engine’s low hum filling the cabin, steady and rhythmic.
Leigh sat beside him, fingers drumming lazily against the dashboard, while Aiden sprawled in the backseat, arms folded, gazing out the window.
It was familiar.
Too familiar.
The road ahead blurred slightly, swallowed by memory.
The convoy in Al-Miraj had been ten vehicles long.
The dust had clung to his visor, the heat crawling under his armor. The sun had risen then, too—beautiful, golden, indifferent. The streets had been quiet, save for the murmurs of the civilians watching from behind cracked doors. They had known, even before the soldiers arrived.
And now—another sunrise. Another drive toward something inevitable.
Araeius’ fingers tightened on the wheel.
He checked his weapons once. Not because he had to. But because it was routine. Because back then, before every operation, he had done the same thing. A silent ritual. A soldier’s prayer.
The parallels sickened him.
By the time they reached Prairieford, the sun hung high in the sky.
The village sat by a winding creek, untouched by time. Small, weathered houses slouched against the dirt roads, their roofs patched with old tin and frayed tarps. People stood in doorways, watching. Silent. Lamp lights lined the streets, their glass domes smudged with soot—the kind of relics used before artificial suns became the standard.
A black plume of smoke lingered in the air.
The scent of burned flesh was faint. But it was there.
Araeius parked beside the Inquisition’s SUV, the vehicle’s dark metal gleaming in the midday light. The emblem—a golden cross wreathed in flame—stood stark against the black paint.
Within seconds, a man hurried toward them.
Disheveled. Sweating through his shirt, clothes still dusted with ash. His eyes darted, eager, desperate.
"You thems from the Church?"
Leigh didn’t even look at him. He just nodded toward the emblem on the SUV. "Clearly."
The man exhaled sharply. "Praise the Goddess you’re here. The apostate—" He wet his lips. "She did in a couple of my mates. Burned ‘em to a crisp."
Araeius caught the way he said it.
Not horror.
Not even grief.
Just exhaustion.
The man’s fingers twitched. "We couldn’t even bury the lads. Had to settle for a—" He let out a dry, humourless chuckle. "A cremation."
Leigh’s head tilted slightly. "That supposed to be a joke?"
The man’s face hardened instantly.
"I jest not about the dead, ser."
Silence.
Then—Leigh sighed. "Where is she?"
The man turned, pointing toward a distant windmill, its silhouette standing stark against the open fields.
"Been holed up there since last night."
Araeius narrowed his eyes. "And the villagers? Did anyone try to—"
The man nodded grimly.
"They tried."
He didn’t need to finish the sentence.
They all knew what that meant.
Leigh nodded at Aiden. "Grab a charge from the trunk."
Araeius exhaled sharply. "A charge? It’s one woman."
Leigh corrected him.
"One apostate. And I’m not taking any chances."
The windmill loomed ahead, its sails creaking against the faint wind.
As they drew closer, the scent of charred flesh thickened.
The bodies lay scattered outside.
Men reduced to brittle hunks of blackened bone, their faces melted into unrecognisable ruin. One still smouldered, faint wisps of black smoke curling into the sky.
Leigh’s voice was even. "Plant it."
Aiden knelt, setting the charge.
They took formation.
Leigh gave the nod.
Aiden pressed the detonator.
The door blew inward, the wooden frame splintering apart—and then—
A woman.
Disheveled. Gaunt. Eyes swollen from crying.
At her feet—a little girl.
The child did not flinch. Did not cry. She just stared.
The woman raised her hands. "Please—stop."
Aiden’s AR-15 was already up, aimed squarely between her ribs.
Leigh didn’t move. "Ser Gilligan. Stand down."
The woman trembled, looking between them. "I can’t fight you," she whispered. "I know I can’t win. But please—" she choked, gesturing to the child. "Not in front of her."
Leigh’s voice was ice. "Did you grant mercy to the men outside?"
The woman’s face twisted. "They came to kill me!"
"You are an apostate."
"You don’t know the full story!"
Araeius exhaled, watching. Waiting.
The woman grabbed the girl’s shoulders. "Look at her."
A child no older than six.
She didn’t look scared. She looked like she’d been through hell.
The woman’s voice broke. "They laid hands on her."
Silence.
Araeius felt his stomach churn.
Leigh sighed. "You turned to blood magic. That is the crime."
The woman’s face slackened.
She saw the writing on the wall.
Her voice came soft. Resigned.
"Then you burn first."
She slit her palm.
The room ignited.
Flames roared to life—
Araeius threw the AMP grenade.
A pulse.
The fire died instantly.
Three gunshots rang out.
Aiden lowered his rifle. "Fucking apostate."
Araeius exhaled.
And then—the girl screamed.
The smell of blood and burnt flesh clung to Araeius like a sickness. It filled his lungs, thick and suffocating, until he could almost taste it.
The little girl had stopped screaming. Not because the grief had passed, but because her small body had given in to exhaustion. Her face was buried against his chest, but he knew she wasn’t crying anymore. She had simply… shut down. A child shouldn’t be able to do that.
His arms tightened around her instinctively. He had been here before.
Al-Miraj.
The desert heat, the blinding sun, the weight of a rifle in his hands. The corpses had been smaller back then. Bones light as paper. Parents gunned down in the sand. A little boy wailing over his mother’s body. And Araeius had stood there, his hands soaked in blood, knowing he could have stopped it.
But he had followed orders.
Like today.
Araeius squeezed his eyes shut. Not again.
Leigh clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We’re done here."
Done.
Another body in the dirt. Another orphan left behind. Another death that shouldn’t have happened.
How many more?
They walked back into the village as the sun bled low over the horizon. Shadows stretched long across the dirt road, but the lamplights had already been lit, flickering against the gathering dark. The same villagers who had whispered about the apostate now stood waiting, murmuring amongst themselves.
The man from earlier stepped forward. His shoulders were looser, as if a weight had been lifted.
"It’s done, then?"
Araeius stopped.
Something inside him snapped.
In a single, fluid motion, he grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him into the nearest wall.
The impact was solid, knocking the breath from the bastard’s lungs. Fear bloomed in his eyes, shock turning to something closer to panic.
"The bullet should have been for you," Araeius snarled. His voice was quiet. Dangerous. "No—that would’ve been too much of a kindness."
The man’s mouth flapped open, grasping for words, for an explanation, but Araeius didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t need to hear it.
"You came to us, crying for help. Called her an apostate, called her a monster." His grip tightened. "But you? You are something worse. You don’t even have the fucking courage to face what you’ve done."
"Araeius," Leigh warned.
Araeius ignored him.
His fist slammed into the wood next to the man’s head, splintering it on impact. The force made the bastard flinch, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips.
"You think Her justice is on your side?" Araeius growled, his face inches from the man’s. "You think the Goddess looks down on you and smiles?"
A crowd had gathered now, silent, watching.
Araeius let go. The man crumpled, coughing, scrambling backward as if Araeius would come at him again.
But Araeius wasn’t looking at him anymore.
He turned his gaze to the rest of the villagers. The same people who had shared this woman’s table. The same people who had broken bread with her. And when the time had come to stand for her, they had sided with a fucking animal.
His lips curled in disgust.
"You defended a man who likes the touch of little girls." His voice was loud now, cutting through the evening air. "You called for the death of a mother who only sought justice. And you call yourselves good, righteous people?"
He let out a sharp, bitter laugh.
"You’re not people." He spat on the ground. "You’re fucking animals."
No one spoke. No one moved.
Araeius turned on his heel and walked away.
The little girl still clung to him.
Leigh didn’t say anything as they climbed into the SUV. Neither did Aiden. The silence was deafening, but Araeius didn’t care.
Because it didn’t matter what they said.
The only thing that mattered was the girl.
She had no family now. No home. And the people who should have protected her never would.
The engine rumbled to life.
They drove off, leaving the village behind.
The road stretched before them, winding through the countryside. The lamplights flickered in the distance, burning away the dark.
But as Araeius stared out the window, the shadows still clung to his thoughts.
He had followed orders. Again.
And another innocent was dead.
Just like Al-Miraj.