As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep crimson, a luxurious carriage rolled through the gates of Gomorrah — the infamous City of Sin. The city lived up to its name even at this hour; the streets behind the gates were loud with the kind of noise that never fully slept, commerce and vice and everything in between bleeding together under the glow of lanterns and open fires. Four armored knights on horseback flanked the carriage as it left the chaos behind and pressed into the dark of the forest road.
The carriage moved steadily deeper into the woods, eventually turning off the main road and pushing through thick undergrowth. After some time, faint torchlight flickered through the trees. The carriage entered a secluded clearing bordered by a sheer rock face, the torches along the stone wall casting long, restless shadows across the ground.
The coachman stepped down and opened the carriage door with practiced reverence.
She descended.
Her hood was drawn up, deep crimson silk trimmed with gold embroidery so intricate it looked less sewn than grown — vines and flourishes curling along every hem, catching the torchlight like embers. Beneath the hood, deep red hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back, the colour of it somewhere between blood and firelight. Her eyes, half-lidded and unhurried, were the same shade — crimson, with the particular quality of someone who had long ago stopped being surprised by anything the world put in front of her. A diamond mark sat just above her brow. Gold earrings. And at her throat, resting against pale skin, a gold goat-skull necklace — the emblem worn not as devotion but as declaration.
She moved toward the rock wall without hurry, each step placed with the quiet authority of someone who had never needed to announce herself.
The air before the wall bent. Rippled. Like the surface of water disturbed from below — and then the stone was gone and the gates were there, massive and dark, their carved surfaces drinking the torchlight rather than reflecting it. From somewhere behind them came a sound — low, rhythmic, a dry cackling that built before the gates groaned inward.
Five hooded figures in black robes dropped to their knees in unison.
"We welcome the return of our Lady, Raia Inazuma, Lightning Priestess of the Fourth Seat."
Raia's gaze passed over them. A slight nod — the smallest acknowledgment that courtesy required — and she walked through the gates without breaking stride.
Meanwhile, in the large dining hall of the cult's underground complex, cultists were gathered in their respective factions, eating and conversing in low murmurs.
"Have you heard? They say the Fourth Seat returned last night."
"Really? The Lightning Priestess herself?"
In another group, someone whispered, "Weren't the Lightning Priestess and the Eleventh Seat quite close?"
"Yeah… things aren't going to stay quiet around here for long."
In the private quarters of the Fourth Seat, Raia sat on her grand king-sized bed, legs crossed, hood now down, her red hair loose around her shoulders. Three hooded figures knelt before her.
"Gustav," she said. "Brief me."
The figure in the center was composed, the kind of man who measured his words before spending them.
He bowed his head.
"My lady. Much has transpired in your time away."
He straightened slightly before continuing.
"Firstly, the Head Priest successfully completed a summoning ritual in your absence. The details of what was summoned have not been made widely available." A brief pause. "Secondly, shortly after the summoning, he called for a grand Congregation and distributed mysterious black pills to almost every member of the cult. Most of us Guardians refrained, but the majority of the devotees consumed them."
He reached into his sleeve and produced a small black box, offering it forward with both hands. Raia took it from him.
"The High Priest calls them Lord Cells. He was quite insistent that all members take them. Those who did reported significant enhancements — improved physique, accelerated healing, and in some cases improvement to their casting abilities. A few reported gaining new ones entirely."
Raia scoffed softly and opened the box. She lifted the pill between two fingers, turning it slowly in the candlelight.
*That old bastard would never hand something this valuable to the entire cult out of generosity.* Her eyes stayed on the pill, reading nothing from its surface but thinking past it.
*He knows their nature better than anyone. Giving them strength freely — that isn't charity. That's preparation but what for.*
"What is that old fool planning…" she murmured.
The woman to her right shifted. "My lady — Lady Indra—"
"I am aware." The words came out even, no rise in pitch, but her thoughtful tone. She didn't need either. "I received your letters."
Beneath the fold of her robe, her hand closed into a fist.
She looked at the three of them. "Where are Yelan and Ntol?"
"We have received no reports from either of them since the day of the summoning ritual, my lady."
The silence that followed was brief but deliberate.
"Inform the Head Priest," Raia said, "that I will be paying him a visit."
"Yes, my lady."
The three rose and quietly filed out. The door closed behind them.
The room settled. The candle beside the bed burned without flickering.
Raia sat with the open box in her lap, the pill still between her fingers, and let out a long, quiet breath.
"Alistair," she murmured.
"You bastard."