(Patriarchate Outskirts – Dawn Mist)
Fog curled low over the cracked pilgrim road northeast of Glinsthía.
Among broken ruins and soft dirt paths, a solemn convoy from Budasca moved in formation—robed clerics and guards on horseback, symbols of Yara shimmering faintly on their banners. The air was heavy with incense and something colder.
From a nearby ridge, Dantes and Ceasare watched in silence.
"That's them," Ceasare murmured.
"Convoy from Aktai. Northern Glinsthía. They were part of the rites in Elkenes."
"Ostvelle border," Dantes muttered.
"Right between frozen zealotry and a cursed forest."
Ceasare gave a half-smile.
"You've never liked holy men."
"I don't like people who bless weapons with a kiss and call it salvation."
They moved—hoods raised, posture lowered—joining the outer edges of the convoy like late pilgrims.
A middle-ranking cleric met them at the rear.
"You walk the road of Yara. What is it you seek?"
Ceasare replied smoothly,
"Rites. Word is, the Elkenes ceremony drew divine favor."
The cleric's expression lifted with pride.
"Indeed. The High Priest himself gave the blessing. The faithful brought forth crystal light, to protect against the Wane."
He revealed it: a faintly glowing shard of crystal, pale gold with veins of ivory light.
But something inside it pulsed wrong.
Dantes felt it crawl beneath his ribs. A prickling heat behind his eyes. Something ancient and watching.
The cleric continued,
"It was blessed at the altar of Elkenes. Carried from the city of prophecy. It holds Yara's will."
But a voice whispered in Dantes' mind:
"Blessing… or curse? Amusing, isn't it?"
The air changed.
Dantes' grip tightened.
"Ceasare," he muttered.
"This crystal—something's off."
Too late.
The clerics froze.
Then, in unison, their heads snapped upward—eyes now jet black, mouths twitching with silent screams.
The crystal cracked—light flaring like a star under siege.
"The Wane feeds," a twisted voice hissed from one of them.
"Faith is the first sacrifice."
Then they attacked.
---
Dantes drew steel in a heartbeat, blade flashing silver as he blocked the first corrupted strike.
Ceasare fought beside him, cloak flaring as he parried a lunging cleric.
"They're possessed!" Ceasare gasped.
"This isn't Yara's light!"
"No—this is rot in disguise," Dantes snarled, driving his elbow into a second assailant and kicking a third off their feet.
The air was thick with smoke and starlight. The clerics screamed in tongues. The crystal pulsed again.
Ceasare staggered, gripping his head.
"D-Dantes…" he fell to one knee, the light stabbing into his chest like a vice.
"Ceasare!"
Dantes turned—parried another strike—and covered his ally with one swift sweep of his sword, scattering enemies back with sheer force.
Then, from one of the clerics—a voice, low and broken:
"…Edmund…"
Dantes stilled.
A smile curled on his lips, sharp as a blade.
"So the Church still fears the name of a dead prince."
He stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly.
The Wane rose around him—but instead of devouring, it obeyed.
It coiled like mist drawn to a storm.
The blackness bled away from the clerics. One by one, they collapsed—gasping, twitching, their bodies rejecting the corruption.
The crystal cracked completely, then shattered into dust.
Ceasare lay unconscious in the dirt.
Dantes lowered his sword.
"…That wasn't a blessing," he muttered, staring at the broken relic.
"That was bait."
---
Boots slammed into stone.
A unit of six paladins emerged from the northern treeline—blades drawn, armor gleaming with the sigil of Budasca.
They stopped at the scene: smoke, fallen clergy, and one mercenary standing over them all.
The captain, a tall woman with steely eyes, barked,
"Name. Rank. Step away from the relic."
Dantes didn't blink.
"They were the ones possessed. I stopped it."
One of the paladins gasped, staring at him.
"…I know him. That's the Hollow Fang."
Another stepped back.
"He fought in the Jesmeurdam purge—alone. They say he doesn't bleed."
"He drinks Wane like water."
"He's cursed—"
The captain raised a hand.
"Silence."
She eyed Dantes coldly.
"If you're innocent—submit. The Church will decide."
Dantes tilted his head.
"You don't need judgment. You need better relics."
Then: a flick of his wrist.
Smoke exploded from the ground, black and shimmering like an eclipse.
By the time they charged through the fog—
Dantes was gone.
Only Ceasare remained, unmoving but alive.
---
(Ruined District – Later That Night)
Moonlight spilled over cracked stone and moss-choked alleys.
Dantes ran—heart pounding, steps frantic—back through the winding paths toward the old inn.
He burst through the broken doorway—
And froze.
The fire had gone out.
Cornelius lay slumped near the wall, robes singed, breath shallow.
No sign of Alberta.
No trace of Francesca.
---
Silence settled like a final bell toll.
And for the first time since the day he crawled from his grave—
Dantes was afraid.
---