WITHIN THE DARKNESS
The grand doors of Saint John's Cathedral stood as tall as ever. Gold was the color the church favored for most of its artworks and sacred objects, and this door—if one could even refer to such a wonder as merely a door—was among the greatest displays of art in the Cathedral.
The visitors' side was engraved with hosts of angels, their mouths open in eternal song, singing praises to one seated upon a throne. Only his knees and feet were visible, his immense form lost to scale and design. The doors themselves rose eight feet high, a deliberate choice meant to make all who stood before them feel small in comparison to the divine—most especially the thirteen-year-old Paul.
The Okonkwos had never missed a Sunday Mass in the world before the end. Mr. and Mrs. Okonkwo made sure of it, whether rain fell or storms raged—though not for the same reasons.
Mrs. Okonkwo was a charismatic Catholic, and if not for the existence of the clergy, one might have mistaken her for the very pillar upon which the church stood. She was the head of the National Catholic Women Organization, the Financial Secretary of the Cathedral as a whole, and the bishop's confidant. To many, she was an inspiration—the embodiment of kindness and justice. According to her, the church was her solace, her humbling abode.
Mr. Okonkwo, however, occupied the opposite end of the spectrum. He scoffed openly at the grand doors, the ornaments, and the statues that adorned the church's interior. Once, when a fellow parishioner asked him why during a social gathering his wife had dragged him to, he responded only with a scoff and a look of quiet discontent before walking away.
Yet he never hesitated when Sunday came. Though he dismissed the grandeur of it all, the moment the priest began his sermon, his eyes would glow with anticipation. Most could not understand why a man who could recite the Bible from beginning to end by heart would listen with such eagerness, like a schoolboy hearing a lesson for the first time—but Mr. Okonkwo did.
On one thing, husband and wife agreed: the church hummed with the presence of God.
That presence, however, now felt distant. The Cathedral had become the main base of the Church of the Beast in the state. What had once been beautiful and holy was now a cesspit of corruption and death. The statues and sacred artworks that once inspired reverence had been removed, desecrated, or destroyed.
Within the main church building, at the steps of the altar, knelt a man draped in priestly attire. His very presence oozed darkness—an oppressive force so potent it seemed to poison the entire sanctuary. He chanted softly, eyes and chalice raised toward the tabernacle, or rather, what little remained of it.
The statue of the Lamb of God upon the crucifix above the tabernacle had been replaced with a nude image of the Beast. The body of Christ had given way to a vessel of corruption.
Two "disciples"—the name given to converts of the Church—stood below the altar. The one on the right yawned, clearly bored and irritated to be present. The other stood rigid, stern, and commanding.
As soon as the ritual ended, the figure descended the altar steps. His eyes briefly sought out the stern man as he did, and some of the darkness that had clung to the altar seemed to follow him down.
"My child, come to me," he said, his tone unsettlingly gentle.
The stern man approached at once and performed a deep bow in reverence. This was the Bishop—the most respected man in the entire state—and he had summoned him. Anyone would bow in his presence, if they valued their life. For someone like Richard—alias Stone-Hedge—fanatic that he was, bowing was not enough; he would have lain prostrate if he were permitted.
Stone-Hedge took the Bishop's outstretched hands and gently kissed his ring.
"Your servant awaits your orders," he said, nearly shouting.
The Bishop nodded in approval, then cast a brief glare toward the other disciple still standing not too far away. Only the evil knows why I was given such a son from my own loins, he often lamented in the solitude of his chambers each night. Yet his son's defiance was the least of his concerns. A far more dangerous threat had taken root within his flock—a poison that needed to be expunged.
"Did she talk?" he asked, the question asked more out of habit than expectation.
"No, Your Holiness," Stone-Hedge replied almost instantly.
"As expected," the Bishop muttered.
He would have been disappointed if she had. He had played a role in raising Rose, and although she was not his direct student but rather his grand-student, their relationship had been close—almost grandfather and granddaughter—even during the Shadow Era, when the church slithered in silence, preparing for the end.
He loved her, though his wicked heart refused to admit it.
Rose was a firecracker. He had never encountered anyone like her, and once she set her mind on something, there was no turning back. He could still remember, with painful clarity, the night she escaped with the Fan of a Thousand Lights.
He had awoken to the sound of a breach alarm blaring through the corridors—the warning tied to the church's storage vault. Throwing on the first garments he could find, he hurried from his chambers. By the time he reached the lower levels, chaos had erupted. The guards had been alerted; disciples and acolytes were already in motion. The entire Cathedral was locked down.
The perpetrator was a sitting duck. Capture was only a matter of time.
And yet, even then, the Bishop—vindictive and serpentine as he was—had his suspicions.
There was only one way out.
A passage known exclusively to the upper echelons of the Cathedral—hidden beneath the Cathedral itself. A secret built for emergencies, conspiracies, and betrayal. Sometimes, the Bishop thought bitterly, being a conniving snake had its merits.
He found the gate to the passageway already ajar.
It creaked open under his hand. Unlocked.
The confirmation tightened something in his chest. Of all the names on the list of suspects—rivals, dissenters, ambitious fools—he had prayed hers would not be among them. He had wished, even now, to find anyone else waiting in those cellars.
Fate, however, was rarely kind.
Rose stood before him, cloaked, the stolen artifact cradled in her hands. The Fan of a Thousand Lights shimmered faintly beneath the folds of her garment. It was damning. Undeniable. And still, some treacherous part of him hoped this was a misunderstanding.
Rose, you see, was his only weakness.
"Rose… why?" he asked, the question escaping him before he could harden his voice.
She did not answer.
She moved.
He watched, frozen, as she slipped past him and vanished into the passage beyond. He could have stopped her. He knew exactly how—where to strike, what command to utter. But his feet refused to move. His hands remained useless at his sides.
He could not harm his little Rosebud.
Only later did he realize the truth he despised most: somewhere along the years of guiding her, training her, shielding her, he had grown a heart. And now it betrayed him.
The Church convened the following morning.
By afternoon, disaster compounded itself—a representative from the Capital arrived without warning. The Bishop did not need divine insight to know whose hand had arranged that. Rivals thrived on moments like this.
A manhunt was declared before dusk.
Eager to impress the Capital's envoy, Rose's master—his own overzealous, foolish student—took command of the search. The Bishop watched the display in silence, already marking yet another liability to be disposed of in due time.
Rose was captured not long after.
She was returned broken, bloodied, and defiant.
All of it unfolded within three days.
Hours of interrogation followed. Hours of torture. And still, she did not speak.
The Bishop did not witness it. He could not afford to. His position was already precarious—whispers circulated, blame coiled tightly around his name. His failure to "control his flock" had not gone unnoticed. For once, restraint was not mercy but survival.
Still, in the privacy of his thoughts, the knowledge gnawed at him.
She would never betray her cause. That was the very thing he had loved about her.
"I hear AgwuNsi failed to capture the rebel leader," the Bishop said at last, his voice trailing deliberately as he addressed Stone-Hedge.
"I could summon him, Your Holiness," Stone-Hedge replied at once.
The Bishop turned slowly, fixing him with a look of something between disdain and amusement.
"How could I ask you to summon a god?" he said quietly. "No. I will go to his domain myself."
He stepped away, the decision already made. At the threshold of the sanctuary, he paused and cast one final glance toward his son—still standing apart, still defiant in his silence.
Then the Bishop turned his back on them both.
The gods were fickle beings—easy to offend, difficult to appease, and immeasurably powerful. Even for the Bishop, confronting one directly was never without risk. Angering a god invited a lifetime of strife, especially one as mischievous as AgwuNsi.
Ordinarily, it was unthinkable to seek out a god's domain unannounced. To do so was to place oneself entirely at the mercy of divine law. One would pray, offer sacrifice, and wait—sometimes for days, sometimes forever—for permission that might never come.
But for someone of the Bishop's standing, such formalities were unnecessary.
"AgwuNsi," he said sternly, standing before the statue of the god. "Let me in."
The world answered at once.
A door tore itself into existence before him, its edges shimmering unnaturally—the gateway to a divine domain. The Bishop did not hesitate. He stepped through.
Reality shifted.
The shrine dissolved into something resembling a library—though no human would have named it so. Shelves became stretched animal hides, pulsing faintly with spells etched deep into their surfaces. Knowledge was not stored in books but sealed within endless calabashes, many of them open, their contents humming softly with restrained power.
At the center of it all sat AgwuNsi, cross-legged on a woven mat, giggling to himself as he completed a spell.
"The Eyes of the Dibia," the Bishop said without preamble. "I want an account of how you lost to a handful of humans."
AgwuNsi paused.
"Chinaedu," the god said mildly, lifting his head. His eyes—dark as a starless sky—fixed on the Bishop's soul. "Must you mock me?"
"Weaver of the threads of reality," the Bishop replied coldly, ignoring the question. "I require an account."
AgwuNsi clicked his tongue and rose to his feet, magic whispering eagerly around him as he moved. "Ignoring me, I see. Very well." He tossed the newly completed spell into a nearby calabash with careless disinterest. "I'll indulge you."
"First," he continued, pacing, "they did not defeat me. Only a vastly weaker clone."
"Second—" he grinned suddenly, clearly pleased with himself, "you should have seen the outfit I wore. A cassock, just like the nonsense you favor here. Glasses too. I was quite handsome, though I had to restrain my beauty—"
"AgwuNsi," the Bishop snapped. "What happened?"
The god huffed softly. "Killjoy."
"They were prepared," AgwuNsi said at last. "A formation capable of killing a god. And somehow"—his expression darkened—"they managed to destroy the demon you sent with me."
"What do you mean somehow?" the Bishop asked, irritation seeping into his voice.
"I couldn't see beyond the formation," AgwuNsi replied. "My vision was obscured."
"Anyone unusual present?" the Bishop pressed. In his experience, people were often more dangerous than relics.
"Yes," AgwuNsi said after a pause. "Two of them. One young—a girl. The other older, a boy. From their resemblance, I suspect they're siblings."
"What made them special?"
"I couldn't read either of them."
The words landed heavily.
The Bishop stared into empty space, his thoughts racing. For AgwuNsi to fail at reading a soul meant only a few possibilities: overwhelming innate power, divine lineage, or protection from something far greater than the god himself.
A headache bloomed behind his eyes.
He wished the demon had survived. Demons were better at sensing these things.
A crisis was coming. And there was only one move left.
"We're done here," the Bishop said, turning toward the exit.
"You didn't even let me finish," AgwuNsi whined.
The Bishop did not respond.
All he could think about was the fact that he would have to torture the one person he loved.
"I really wish the demon survived."