The spiral staircase seemed carved directly into the spine of the world. Every step of black stone was worn in the center, polished by centuries of monks, priests, and gravediggers carrying illustrious dead to their final rest. Geneviève descended into the darkness, one hand pressed against the damp wall for orientation, the other gripped around the hilt of her bastard sword. The air down here was different from that of the city. There was no stench of coal or sewage, but a mineral smell—dry and cold, like the inside of an old iron chest.
She reached the bottom just as the bells on the surface had ceased their vibration a few minutes prior. She found herself in the Antechamber of Silences. It was a vast circular hall, supported by squat columns carved in the shape of Dwarves holding up the ceiling (a tribute to the ancient alliance between Sigmar and the Mountain Kings). Along the walls, within niches, rested the sarcophagi of the First Elector Counts. There were no torches. The only light came from luminescent mosses growing between the cracks of the vaulted ceiling, casting a spectral, greenish glow upon the stone effigies.
But the antechamber was not empty. Between the columns, three figures waited motionlessly. They were not men. They were armors. Heavy suits of full plate, decorated with black and silver enamels, wielding halberds three meters long. Geneviève stopped. She heard no breath. She felt no heartbeat. And through the slits of the visors, she saw no eyes, but only a swirling void of grey smoke.
"You have no soul to save," Geneviève murmured, understanding. They were Shadow Constructs—hollow armor animated by the magic of the Grey College or some similar necromantic sorcery. Tireless guardians who could be neither corrupted nor pitied.
The central figure moved its head. The armor creaked, a metallic sound that echoed in the perfect acoustics of the crypt. Without a word, the three armors charged. They moved with unnatural fluidity, gliding across the stone floor without the sound of footsteps, as if suspended by invisible threads.
Geneviève raised her common sword. The first halberd fell with enough force to cut a horse in half. Geneviève dodged laterally. The halberd's blade struck the floor, sending stone shards flying. Geneviève responded with a horizontal slash, aiming for the armor's "waist," where the plates overlapped. CLANG. Her sword struck the enchanted steel. Sparks flew. The armor wavered but did not fall. There was no flesh inside to cut, no organs to wound.
"Brute force," Geneviève thought, dodging a second blow that hissed past her ear. "I have to dismantle them."
A second construct attacked her from behind. Geneviève felt the displacement of air. She dropped to her knees, letting the enemy halberd pass over her head and strike the first construct. Taking advantage of the tangle, Geneviève dropped her sword (useless for cutting metal) and lunged forward. She grabbed the first construct's leg with both hands and pulled with a violent jerk. The armor, devoid of internal body weight and balanced only by magic, lost its footing and collapsed with a deafening crash. Geneviève gave it no time to recover. She leapt onto the construct's breastplate and began to strike the helmet with her metal gauntlets. One. Two. Three blows. The metal of the helmet crumpled. The grey smoke that animated it hissed as it escaped, dispersing. The armor became inert—just old scrap metal.
But two remained. And Geneviève was unarmed, kneeling atop the "corpse" of the first. The two halberds fell together, closing like a deadly pair of shears. Geneviève rolled away at the last second, feeling the wind of the blades on the nape of her neck. She scrambled up near a column. She snatched up the halberd of the destroyed construct. It was heavy, balanced for non-human hands. "Let's see how you like your own steel," she growled.
She used the halberd's shaft to parry a thrust, then spun the weapon, using the rear hook to snag the neck of the second construct. She pulled. The armor's head snapped off the torso with a dry tear. The body continued to walk blindly for two steps, then collapsed.
The third construct stopped. The smoke in its visor seemed to pulse. Instead of attacking with the halberd, the armor opened its arms. From its steel hands emerged shadow tentacles, similar to those of the sorcerer on the ship in Marienburg. The tentacles wrapped around Geneviève, constricting her chest and arms. She felt a paralyzing cold. Her Gromril armor became a prison of ice.
Geneviève gritted her teeth. She could not use the light burst here, in the antechamber. It would alert whoever was in the ritual hall. She had to use the strength of her blessed body. She screamed, swelling the muscles of her chest against the magical constriction. She felt the straps of her armor strain to their limit. The shadow tentacle vibrated, taut as a violin string. With a snap of her arms outward, Geneviève broke the magical grip. The shadow dissolved. Geneviève charged the third construct with her shoulder low. The impact was devastating. The hollow armor flew back, smashing against a column and shattering into disjointed pieces.
Geneviève stood alone in the silence, panting. She massaged her arms, numb from the magical cold. Before her stood a massive bronze door, decorated with the symbol of Sigmar's Hammer crushing a skull. The door was ajar. From the gap spilled a pulsing purple light and a low, rhythmic sound. A chant. Geneviève picked up her bastard sword, even though the blade was now chipped and nearly useless. She approached the slit and looked inside.
The Great Crypt. It was a rectangular hall, the sacred heart of the subterranean Empire. At the center, on a raised podium, stood a simple sarcophagus of rough granite. The tomb of Magnus the Pious, the savior of the Empire. But the tomb had been desecrated. Not opened, but used as an altar. Atop the stone slab lay a naked, unconscious man, connected to crystal tubes pulsing with purple light. Geneviève recognized the facial features, though they were emaciated by illness. It was not Emperor Karl Franz. It was the Crown Prince, the Emperor's young nephew, whose existence was kept secret for safety.
Around the sarcophagus, five figures hooded in grey chanted in a language that made one's ears bleed just to hear it. And at the head of the circle, his back to the entrance, was he. The Grand Master. He wore a tunic that seemed made of solidified smoke and a polished silver mask that entirely covered his face, with no slits for eyes or mouth. A perfect mirror surface. He held an obsidian dagger, suspended over the boy's chest.
"The blood of the saint did not arrive," said the Grand Master, his voice not coming from the mask but appearing to be born directly in the air. "But royal blood will suffice to open the door. Tonight, the line of Sigmar ends. And the Grey Era begins."
Geneviève understood. They didn't just want to kill the Emperor. They wanted to break the line of succession in a ritual that would curse the royal blood, making it impossible for anyone of the lineage to reign without going mad. A metaphysical coup d'état.
There was no time for stealth. Geneviève kicked the bronze door. BOOM. The heavy leaf slammed against the wall. The hooded heads snapped around. The Grand Master turned slowly, his silver mask reflecting Geneviève's imposing figure on the threshold.
"You are late for the delivery, courier," the Grand Master said, calmly. "I brought a return," Geneviève replied.
She threw the empty crate she had recovered from the carriage onto the floor. Then, with a slow movement, she unhooked the scabbard of her ruined bastard sword and let it drop. She reached behind her back where, wrapped in wet rags and leather, lay the true weapon. She tore away the bandages. Light exploded in the crypt. Not the purple light of corrupt magic, nor the green of necromancy. A blue light—cold, pure as the water of a mountain lake. Vesper's Light sang, liberated after weeks of darkness.
The cultists recoiled, covering their eyes. The Grand Master tilted his mirrored head. "Interesting," he said, without a trace of fear. "The Star of the West. So Groll was right. You truly exist."
Geneviève entered the hall. "Leave the boy." "Come and get him," the Grand Master replied, raising his left hand. The air around him contorted. From the shadows of the columns emerged dozens of black blades, suspended in mid-air, pointed at Geneviève. "Let's see if your light is faster than my darkness."
The shadow blades did not fly like arrows; they swarmed like black wasps. Dozens of daggers made of solid smoke and condensed hatred fell upon Geneviève from every angle, searching for the joints of her armor, her throat, her eyes.
Geneviève did not try to parry them one by one. It would have been impossible. Instead, she planted her feet on the stone floor and pivoted her torso, turning Vesper's Light into a vortex of radiant purity. The sacred blade did not just cut flesh; it cut magic. Every time the blessed steel met a shadow dagger, a sharp screeching was heard, like water thrown on boiling oil. The black blades sizzled and evaporated upon contact with the blue aura, dissolving into coils of grey vapor that smelled of sulfur.
Geneviève advanced through the storm, one step at a time, protecting her face with her left spaulder. "Defend the Master!" screamed one of the hooded cultists.
The five acolytes drew curved swords and lunged at her, hoping to overwhelm her with numbers while she was distracted by the magic. It was a mistake. Geneviève intercepted the first cultist with a backhand of her shield (which she had recovered from her back in a fluid motion). The man flew away with his chest caved in, landing against a column. The second tried to strike her legs. Geneviève stomped on the blade with her armored boot, snapping it, and finished the man with a pommel strike to the helmet.
But the Grand Master was not standing idly by. While his servants died, he continued to recite the ritual, his voice rising in pitch, becoming an unbearable hum that made one's nose bleed. The obsidian dagger began to descend toward the unconscious Prince's chest.
Geneviève saw the black blade dropping. She was five meters away. Two cultists blocked her path. There was no time to fight. Geneviève threw Vesper's Light. It was not a swordsman's move; it was an act of faith. The sword spun through the air, a Catherine wheel of blue light. It passed between the two cultists, who scrambled out of the way terrified, and struck with millimetric precision. It did not hit the Grand Master. It hit the obsidian dagger.
CRASH. The sound was that of precious crystal exploding. The ritual dagger shattered into a thousand pieces. The energy accumulated in the ritual, deprived of its focal point, exploded. A purple shockwave swept the crypt. Geneviève was thrown back, rolling across the floor. The remaining cultists were hurled against the walls like ragdolls, their bones broken by the impact. The granite sarcophagus held, protecting the Prince from the direct blast.
Dust rose in the crypt. Geneviève struggled to her feet, shaking her head to clear her blurred vision. Her sword was embedded in the stone floor, a few centimeters from the sarcophagus, still vibrating from the impact. The Grand Master stood upright, unharmed. His smoke tunic was agitated by a non-existent wind. The silver mask was intact, but it now reflected a tired and unarmed Geneviève.
"You broke the toy," the Grand Master said. His voice was not angry. It was gelid, devoid of humanity. "A pity. I would have preferred an orderly transition. Now I must use more... crude methods."
The man raised both hands. Geneviève felt gravity increase. Her knees gave way. Her Gromril armor seemed to weigh a ton. It was as if the entire cathedral above them was pressing down on her shoulders. Grey Magic. The power of Shadow and Deception, capable of convincing the body that it is dying.
"Kneel," ordered the Grand Master, walking slowly toward her. "Your light is annoying, girl. Who sent you? The Lady? Sigmar? Or are you just an error of the universe?"
Geneviève was on all fours, panting. Sweat dripped into her eyes. She felt her bones creaking under the magical pressure. She looked at her sword, three meters away. Unreachable. She looked at the Prince on the sarcophagus. The boy was still breathing, but weakly.
"I... do not kneel..." Geneviève wheezed, spitting blood onto the sacred floor. "Everyone kneels before the inevitable," the Master replied. He arrived over her. From the sleeve of his tunic slid a second blade, a stiletto thin as a needle. "I will take your blood instead of his. It will be an acceptable substitute."
He raised the stiletto. Geneviève closed her eyes. Not to surrender. But to seek the only thing the weight of the shadow could not crush. The memory of the water. The Lake. The promise. She did not invoke physical strength. She invoked Purity. A burst of white heat radiated from her chest. It was not an attack. It was a negation. Geneviève rejected the reality imposed by the mage. "NO!"
The wave of light broke the gravity spell with a dry snap, like a broken rubber band. Geneviève lunged upward, striking with her head. Her armored forehead (the helmet had held) smashed against the Grand Master's silver mask. CLANG-CRACK.
The mage staggered back, dropping the stiletto. The silver mask cracked. A black fissure opened in the center, like a spiderweb on ice. Beneath the mask, Geneviève saw for an instant something that terrified her more than magic. She did not see a human face. She saw a void. Grey, translucent skin that allowed glimpses of muscles moving like worms. And no eyes. Only two pits of nothingness.
The Grand Master brought a hand to his cracked face. "You... you touched me," he hissed, in a voice that now trembled with an alien rage. "No one touches me."
On the surface, the Cathedral bells began to ring out. Heavy footsteps and shouted orders echoed from the spiral stairs. The Templars were coming. The Grand Master looked at the stairs, then at Geneviève, who had recovered her sword. He calculated the odds in an instant. "It is not over, Light of the West," he said. "You have saved a body, but the mind of the Empire is already ours."
The mage made a sharp gesture with his hand. His body decomposed into a swarm of grey moths. The moths flew swirling toward the ceiling, slipping into the cracks of the vault, vanishing into the dark. Geneviève remained alone in the crypt, with the corpses of the cultists and the unconscious Prince.
Geneviève ran toward the sarcophagus. She checked the boy's pulse. A steady beat. The tubes had been torn away by the explosion. He was safe, though weak. From the stairs, she saw the lights of torches descending. "In Sigmar's name! Get down there! I heard fighting!" a powerful voice yelled. The Grand Theogonist himself? Or the Captain of the Reiksguard?
Geneviève looked at the only other exit: a ventilation duct leading toward the river sewers, likely where the cultists had entered. She could not be found here. A foreign knight, with a magic sword, standing over the Crown Prince in a crypt full of corpses? She would be beheaded before she could say a word.
She sheathed Vesper's Light, wrapping it quickly in the cloak of the nearest cultist to hide its glow. She cast one last look at the Prince. "Wake up in a better world, boy," she whispered.
She slipped into the narrow, dark duct a moment before the crypt doors were smashed open by a dozen halberds. As she crawled away into the subterranean mud, she heard the voices behind her. "The Prince! He's alive!" "Look at these bodies... who killed them?" "There is a broken sword here... black steel..."
Geneviève continued to crawl toward the river. She was filthy, wounded, exhausted. But Altdorf still had an heir. And the Grey Circle had a new enemy who knew how to bleed, but did not know how to surrender.