Elsewhere, men prayed.
It was at the cusp of dawn, when the black night fractured into pale grey, and with the breaking of the bay like bread, the bells rang. The waves beat against stone as though they too kept time, foaming in cadence with each toll.
At the first light, the Dawn Bell tolled seven times. Each toll carried, not merely through the air, but into the bone—deep, resonant, a vibration that hummed in marrow. The sevenfold echo reminded the faithful of the gifts of Tien: mercy, peace, life, breath, fire, light, and dawn itself.
At every toll, the chorus of nuns rose in soft response, their voices feathered and ethereal, layering like mist on water:
"Her light awakens us. Her mercy keeps us. Her dawn renews us."
---
The Chapel
The cathedral made voices sound angelic, each word magnified by stone and arch until even whispers carried weight. High ceilings caught the hymns and returned them brighter, fuller, as if heaven itself had joined.
The air was fragrant with incense: sandalwood burned low in copper braziers, smoke curling like ghostly ribbons; beneath it lingered subtler hints of frankincense and myrrh, sweet and resinous, filling mouths with the taste of holy fire. Wax candles guttered, dripping light and molten tears upon wrought-iron holders.
As the faithful gathered, their robes rustled like a tide against the stone floor. Some wept quietly, the sound swallowed by the immensity of the place. Others gazed upward, where dawn light broke through rose-colored glass, spilling across the nave like blood transfigured into gold.
---
The Procession of Flame
A Custodian entered, moving slowly, his face solemn as he bore the Lamp of Pure Flame. The flame, caged in glass, burned steady—neither wind nor doubt disturbed it. He set it before the altar.
It was more than fire. It was memory, promise, covenant. Once mankind had stolen flame for war, yet here it was tamed, eternal, inviolate—a symbol of Tien's own light.
A High Priestess lifted her hands, voice quiet yet cutting as pleasant wind through wheat:
"Once we bore stolen fire,
But now we keep Her gift.
Once we held torches of war,
But now we guard the lamp of peace."
The people bowed their heads. A hush moved through them like a single breath.
---
The Reading from the Book of Radiance
The congregation was gathered in their numbers now, men and women alike crowding the pews, their faces pale in candle-glow.
A priest approached the lectern and opened the gilded manuscript. The golden hinges creaked as though reluctant to release such weighty words. Sunlight from the east window pierced the hall and struck the illuminated letters, making them gleam as though written in living flame.
The priest, draped in white and gold vestments, read. His voice rang like bronze bells, firm and commanding, pulling forth emotions long buried in every listener.
"From the First Testament of the Dawn:
'She breathed upon dust, and from it rose her children.
She set a spark within them,
that they might shine even in shadow.
This is the mercy of Tien Most High.'"
The words washed over the crowd. Some clutched their chests as if the spark itself had caught within them.
---
The Creed of the Children
All rose as the High Priestess led them into the Creed. Her tone was like honey poured slow, warm and golden, and the people followed, their voices echoing hers in thunderous affirmation.
High Priestess:
"I believe in the mercy of the Mother, Tien Most High."
Congregation:
"Not in our frail hands, but in Her everlasting light."
High Priestess:
"I believe in the grace of Her will—"
Congregation:
"The flame She set within our hearts, a beacon against the shadows."
High Priestess:
"I believe in the harvest of mercy and peace."
Congregation:
"May our hands be blessed as baskets for Her fruit."
Their words shook the air. Tears gleamed in eyes. Children clung to their mothers' robes; old men straightened their spines as though carried on the weight of the creed. In that moment, it felt as if the goddess herself had stepped down into the hall to walk among her children.
---
The Offering of Bread and Wine
Deacons brought forth the Basket of Mercy and the Chalice of Dawn. The bread was freshly baked, its crust crackling, steam rising faintly as it was broken. The wine glimmered deep red, like a fragment of sunrise captured in liquid.
Each worshipper came forward, heads bowed, to receive bread and sip wine. Some lingered after swallowing, lips moving in private prayer.
The High Priestess intoned:
"As Her Son gave His life, so we share in His feast.
As the dawn gives light, so we share in Her breath."
And the people answered, strong and steady, voices braided together as one:
"May we rise in Her eternal dawn."
---
The Blessing of the Saint's Veil
A Senior Paladin stepped forward, his armor polished so brightly the firelight bent against it. He lifted the Saint's Veil, for no saint lived to carry it now. The veil shimmered faintly, its silken threads catching lamplight in shifting hues.
He held it above the bowed congregation. Some trembled. Some reached out their hands, though none dared touch.
The High Priestess spoke, her voice like the rustle of harvest fields ready for gathering:
"As this veil once held blood,
So now it holds mercy.
As it once hid sorrow,
So now it reveals dawn."
The veil was lowered, brushing lightly over foreheads and crowns. Its touch was strange: some felt warmth, others chill, but all felt changed. Even the most hardened soldier bent his knee, as though fleeing devils had driven him there.
---
The Closing Benediction
The Dawn Bell rang three final times. Each toll hung longer than the last, until silence itself seemed consecrated.
The High Priestess lifted her arms, her words rolling like blessing across the sea of bowed heads:
"We walked through the night, yet She gave us the dawn.
We bore the weight of shadow, yet She bore us into light.
Now go—Her flame within you,
Her breath upon you,
Her dawn before you."
And the congregation, every soul trembling as if their bones themselves had prayed, said as one:
"May it be so."
---
After Mass
The bells still echoed faintly in the stone when another sound replaced them: parchment rustling, chairs shifting, quills scratching.
In a small office tucked behind the cathedral, voices conversed low. Candles burned steadier here, away from incense, their light falling over neat stacks of parchment.
"So," a voice asked, deep and deliberate, "you are saying the heroes have been spotted? And where, pray, might they be?"
The speaker leaned forward across the desk, fingers steepled, face lost in shadow.
"Well," replied another, more cautious, "they seem to have appeared on that vampire's property. But I believe… we should not have any trouble."
A pause. The scratch of a quill. Then the shadowed voice again, calm and calculated:
"Very well. Take a saintess along. We must strive for cordial relationship, not confrontation."
The adviser bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord."
The shadowed figure exhaled, long and thoughtful. His gaze drifted to a ledger where names were written like wounds. One name, in particular, lingered on his tongue.
"Miss Marianne Bloodworth," he said slowly, savoring the syllables as though tasting a vintage aged in cellars of history. He almost smiled. "Ah, how history ferments into such pleasing wine."