Dread hides within the foggy streets of Bruis, lurking, stifling their snarls, watching a Dauntless stroll the roads unchallenged.
Although the storm has somewhat lifted, the rain still sprinkles gently, dropping onto the leftover puddles. There's a freezing chill hanging in the air, clinging to my skin. Worry fills my heart as I watch the Somata attempt to break into the Seer's room, but that feeling was quickly swept away as the sigils activated in time, knocking back those demons.
I should have more faith in the Saints and in myself. An Inquisitor having doubts, who could believe such a thing? Yet such is the way when dealing with the supernatural. Sometimes I find myself wishing to return to a life of scholarly duties and pastoring as I did in my youth, before the Inquisition offered me the opportunity of acolyteship. Except that if I hadn't accepted that chance, I wouldn't have saved so many souls.
The flames of the Dauntless are beautiful, resembling the first snow of winter. They shine in the night without giving light to the world. They crawl all over the Dauntless, lying in the comfortable darkness.
The Somata attempt to hide in the fog, but the Dauntless isn't surprised. He's calm and collected, carefully counting his enemies by the dozens. How brazen they are, openly challenging their predator. How truly desperate.
The Dauntless stands with the posture of a white tiger, standing amongst small hounds. He bears many scars, one of which stands out: a long, serrated mark that begins at his chin and extends to the bottom of his azure, star-like eyes. His white hair mirrors the white fire; how captivating it is to witness a Dauntless in action. I could never put into words simply how awe-inspiring they are.
And yet, they're my foe.
There's an old proverb from when the Inquisition was young: Dread the hunting Dauntless—no prey will escape their grasp, no wound they give heals, and not even the Saints can save you from their flames.
Fear and awe fill me, a contradictory feeling, but real. There is no other sense, no other way to explain.
Pale-white fire gathers in the Dauntless's palm, swarming into a hot ball of flames. It explodes, summoning a dull, chipped sword, and rusted chains tether his arm to the hilt.
A Somata howls in the distance, and war begins.
The Dauntless dashes forward, meeting the first flesh beast, as dozens of demons pounce at him. The Dauntless brings his sword high, above his head. The blade curves downward, a white arc of fire following behind it, carving down its center.
The flesh beast cracks, then detonates as white fire pours throughout it, evaporating the Somata into ash. The fire doesn't disappear, it thrives, expanding outwards. The Dauntless seizes the fire with his hands and absorbs the flames. His body takes on a pale aura.
The Dauntless grabs the chains and yanks them off him, transmuting the rusted chains into more fire. The Dauntless hurls fire from all directions, forming a collapsing dome of pure white that devours the Somata where they stand.
The fog is swept away, the chill scattering as the heat of conviction warms the air. Ash fills the air, crafted from burnt Somata.
The few brave Somata attempt to continue their assault in vain. The Dauntless lunges from Somata to Somata, turning those devilish things into piles of drifting ash.
There are dozens of screeching and monstrous Somata, and all that's left is the ash of fallen souls that drift from this plane to beyond the Veil.
I pray that the Interceder will take them to the Saints, to their shepherd, take care of your lamb, oh, Great Saints.
So much ash… All things come from dust, and all things will return to dust. No one can recreate life from ash. That's where the Saints and Dauntless differ. Where my role and the Dauntless's role part ways.
Upon this roof, the garrison isn't far from where I stand. I'm afraid the Purgemaster will find the Seer. Perhaps, he already has. I've seen serpents of fire slithering up and around the city streets, following Essence. The Essence of something far too large to be human, yet only a few could have such a large Essence. Even fewer belong in his plane.
Seers are all but extinct, and meeting the boy, I must, unfortunately, assume the Dauntless has found his prey.
My focus returns to the Dauntless. Except where I last saw him, he isn't there. He's missing.
A light object is gracefully placed on my shoulder, its side anchoring at my neck. It is flat with a broad surface crafted from old steel. The metal feels dull, with chips along the edges.
"Dauntless, how do you do?" I say.
"I thought someone was watching me. I expected it to be on the mortal plane. I searched for a mortal body. Imagine my surprise to find an Inquisitor using his spiritual body. I hope you understand the potential consequences."
The Dauntless discovered quicker than I expected.
"Your reputation precedes itself, Purgemaster."
"That's not my name," the Dauntless replies.
"Really? I was sure that your appearance matched the descriptions. Ikaris, the Purgemaster. Isn't that correct? Please correct my ignorance if I am wrong."
"I have forsaken that name."
Forsaken? A Dauntless cannot forsake the name given to them by the Dagda.
"Forsaken? I'd imagine your new name has an ingenious, creative origin. Perhaps something along the lines of Ikaris, the Forsaken. Surely I hope you've brought your name change to the Dagda."
The Dauntless places more pressure on my neck. If I were in a mortal body, this blade would be drawing blood. Perhaps it already is. My body lies in bed, waiting for my spiritual self to return.
"The Dagda?" The Dauntless scoffs. I feel the blade become lazy, drooping off my shoulder, falling beside Ikaris.
"Inquisitor, you don't know the dealings between Dauntless, especially the Dagda. You merely understand the supernatural that humans can comprehend. The Dagda is beyond what humans believe is law. The Dagda reaches beyond the mortal plane, stretching across many others. Save your tongue on things you can speak about. As such, you will tell me where the boy is."
My hand brushes the indent where the Dauntless laid his sword. I turn to face the man of fire, wearing my unshakeable grin.
"I do apologize, Ikaris, the Forsaken, I should keep to what I know. However, you mention a boy. There are many boys within the garrison, and many more living in Bruis. Please specify."
Flames lick off the Dauntless's coat, his star-like eyes examine mine, attempting to peer into my soul, into my Essence. He wants to know what I know. I will not let him search through my Essence. He does not belong.
Saints give me strength…
A golden-white aura surrounds my body, pushing against the Dauntless's gaze.
Ikaris's expression shifts to something akin to annoyance. He must have believed I would be an easy opponent, but he underestimates my conviction.
I see his grip tighten as the annoyance fades, giving way to something calm, grafting a tiny smile upon his face, never reaching his eyes.
"You're correct, Inquisitor. I should specify, after all, humans are easily confused. So I'll offer you a bargain: hand over the Seer, and I leave Bruis. If not, I will raise my blade against you. "
The stare in Ikaris's eyes hardens as I see him readying himself for combat.
I shall do the same.
"Dauntless, I should inform you that I have an appointment with the boy in the morning. I'm afraid I cannot act on your bargain."
"A brave choice, Inquisitor."
"Indeed," I reply.
Coming from my aura are spheres of gold light, orbiting around my palm. I must prepare. This coming battle will not be easy.