"Since light was separated from darkness, the world has existed upon a land divided between radiance and shadow. When instinct came to rule over the hearts of men, evil was born within humanity... and thus, demons simply claimed more ground."
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A thick mist veiled the city of Caprissia as the day died, and the dim glow of the street lamps tried in vain to imitate the brilliance of the sun. Cold air spread through the streets, from the high forests to the most distant bridges. Amid the growing darkness, the voices of mortals blended with the modern murmur of the city—a place that appeared alive beneath a deceptively calm skin.
Life flowed through its long avenues. The humid summer dragged on with endless rains, and the rays of the sun had become nothing more than a distant memory. Yet, it was still considered a good place to live—full of resources and apparent peace.
At the heart of the city rose an ancient, imposing Victorian structure: a tall building, a place of religious worship, visible only because the white castle hidden deep in the forested heights chose not to overshadow it. That castle drew the greatest fascination from travelers, though reaching it was impossible—a secret guarded by the thicket and the peril of the terrain itself. The cathedral, in contrast, received an impressive number of faithful visitors day after day. The scent of melted candle wax—an offering to stone deities—filled its silent, frigid halls, a dense aroma that managed to seep beyond its enormous stone walls.
Dark eyes reflected the temple's entrance, tracing with inevitable fascination the anthropomorphic forms of two majestic sculptures that guarded the threshold—figures of those whom modern men had named angels. Their wings, white as doves, spread wide in petrified mercy; their veiled faces were forever tilted toward the clouded heavens.
Farther within, where unfeeling eyes could barely reach, another holy effigy stood in the shadows, surrounded by white candles of varying heights. It was revered with far greater devotion—an "angel" of higher rank, a magnetic being carved from marble, capable of enchanting any gaze and bending the five senses beneath its commanding presence.
The warm, flickering light of the candles hypnotized the visiting woman. The artificial tranquility of the place seemed to erase even her thoughts—perhaps the doing of those small, dancing flames.
Janab advanced with slow steps until she stood before the sacred relief. The chill of the rain on her dark clothes faded as she found shelter within the temple. Her wavy hair, still damp, swayed softly as she walked.
—The Archangel Michael… merciful prince, judge of demons.
The delicate flames swayed all at once, as if stirred by the sudden sound of a voice—a voice that brushed against her skin like the caress of the finest silk.
The lips from which it came were perfectly shaped, red as fresh blood, a fierce contrast to the whiteness of the skin barely visible beneath a snow-colored robe that cloaked a tall figure.
A man? she wondered. If that robe revealed the form hidden beneath, she would have sworn it was. And yet, in her thirty-one years of life, she had never known anyone with such a presence—unexplainable, overwhelming, making her body tremble between fear and warmth, an almost divine contradiction.
"Even for those who do not glorify this house," said the deep, smooth voice, "there is still the joy of forgiveness."
A sharp profile came into view as the figure turned slightly. Though he did not face her, Janab felt every word was spoken solely to her.
She had visited countless temples in her life, and never had anyone addressed her directly. Tradition dictated that only the devout had the right to speak within sacred walls.
"As certain as He lives," the figure continued, "you shall find kindness in His judgment—even should you despise life itself."
The words made her step back, uneasy. They were cryptic, yet something within them stirred a fragile thread inside her. A faint imbalance crossed her face. The figure, without stopping, began to fade into the deep corridors of dark wood and thick carpets.
"Gather the flowers of the holocaust," the voice added, now distant, "and when they have withered, leave them upon the threshold of your dwelling. Thus you shall remain safe when the blasphemers rise once more against faith."
The final words seemed to allude to a riddle—a mystery she would devote no more thought to than the seconds it took to hear them. There was nothing unusual about talk of salvation and forgiveness; those concepts had always gone hand in hand.
Outside, the rain had carved deep furrows into the ground, turning every step into a muddy ordeal for those who dared to walk with their colorful umbrellas. The rhythm of the city remained unchanged, and likely would until the dawn of a new day.
Janab tightened the dark coat around her body and made her way through the crowd, vanishing down that wet, slippery path—swallowed by the fog rising from the earth.
She had chosen to visit Caprissia after seeing a photograph of the castle's pale silhouette. At thirty-one, she had undertaken the trip alone, seeking to clear her mind during a brief vacation. She had made no plans, and now found herself terribly bored. She was ignorant, in every sense, of what could—or should—not be done in a city that seemed to breathe mystery.
Caprissia was more than a place to visit; the faithful held great processions to fight against the name by which it was known: "The Devil's City." The place where night did not belong to men.