Many claimed that Geofu was crafted by the gods themselves—That its walls were built by divine hands and its streets laid by the heavenly ones' wisdom. The holiest of cities, whose gates no evil dared to open and whose walls no unholy thing could breach.

As exaggerated as the legend may be, Celestine amused herself from time to time by gazing upon all its structures and the cityscape it had created. She imagined taking clay in her hands, forming it into a rough sphere, and then building this city up from there. What would the shape have been? Where would the roads have led and where would the first of its people have built their homes?

In the far corner of the city, she looked over the many small, humble dwellings and thought that maybe she had started there. The buildings were old and worn, but still solidly made. The streets around them were narrow and the alleyways were barely wide enough to let a man through. In her mind's eye, the clay had been pliable and wet. She could have easily pressed a finger down on its surface and created the first of many holes or indentations.

No. She could never have achieved something like this on her own. It was the fruit of many years of toil and work. The city was a masterpiece and its people the proud ones that had seen it through.

"Your Holiness," Brother Fabian's soft, polite voice brought her back to the present.

Celestine turned towards him, head tilting up to meet his gaze.

Brother Fabian nodded quietly to the window and said, "We've arrived."

"Ah. Yes."

The carriage trundled to a halt, its wheels creaking. At once, the door was opened for them. Brother Fabian exited first, then held out his hand for her, the gesture smooth and practiced.

It was still early enough in the morning that the sun was a faint sliver of light behind the city's silhouette, its rays muted. The sky was a gradient of blue, fading to purple and red, a light haze lingering over the city.

Already, her escorts were dismounting, ther horses snorting as they settled. The Dawn Templars formed a formation consisting of two perimeters. The inner was a compact and tight one, centered on her, while the outer was more relaxed and flexible, allowing the group a larger area.

Once, she had objected to the method, to the physical and implied distance placed between her and the world. She had insisted, rather fervently, that the people of the Holy City deserved no such barriers.

Celestine now knew each of her companions by name. She remembered their birthdays and anniversaries. Their faces, their families, their histories, their dreams. And their presence became a fact of life, no different than the sun above her or the air around her.

They were a part of her and her duties. Her family, in a way. They had no need for distance.

The hospital was an unpretentious structure. A large, blocky building with a flat roof, its facade was adorned with a simple, if elaborate, pattern of brickwork. The entrance, a single set of double doors, was framed by a large archway. The building itself had existed for over a century, once a temple dedicated to Zell, quietly tucked away in a side street. Time and necessity had eventually forced it to change its function. Now, it housed the sick and wounded, a refuge for those in need. In the wake of the Legion's final invasion and the Alliance's desperate counterattack, their number had swelled, and they had found themselves stretched thin.

"Let us begin, my friends," Celestine bade to her companions.

Her arrival was a quiet one. She'd requested to be left unannounced, and had come at a time when few others were awake. The nurses were all busy with their rounds, tending to their patients.

The hospital was a large structure, the interior a labyrinthine complex. A soft murmur, like a heartbeat, came from within the halls, a constant chorus of pained groans and soft whispers. Celestine's steps were hushed against the floor, the soles of her sandals tapping along the marble tiles. She walked along the dimly lit halls, the candle lights above her flickering every so often.

Some quiet gasps came as some caught sight of her, recognizing her. Some of the wounded made to fall to their knees, or else bow their heads, despite their injuries.

"There is no need," Celestine said, her voice carrying down the hall as she not quite chided. Then, she bowed to them. "I am here to serve you, my friends. Do not trouble yourselves for my sake."

Celestine first approached one woman in particular. Muscular and broad-shouldered, she had the look of a soldier. She was propped up on a bed, leaning back against a mound of pillows. One arm was wrapped in a tight sling, held across her body, and one of her legs ended abruptly above the knee, wrapped tightly in bandages.

Her wounds had been cleaned and dressed, the smell of pennyroyal oil lingering on her skin.

"Good morning," said Celestine. "Might I ask your name?"

She blinked up at Celestine. Her eyes were sunken, dark circles lining them. Her skin was pale and clammy, yet there was an alertness to her, a glimmer that shone through weariness. She gave a small nod. "Car... Carmen. I am Carmen Sanson, your Holiness."

"Good morning, Carmen. It's good to meet you. I trust your stay here has been a pleasant one?"

Carmen offered a lopsided smile. "As pleasant as it could be, your Holiness."

"May I?" Celestine asked, motioning towards the empty space on the bed.

Another small nod.

Celestine seated herself beside Carmen, her hands resting in her lap. Carmen seemed to grow more alert, straightening, her eyes widening just a fraction. Celestine offered her a smile. "I am afraid that my time is short, Carmen. There are many who have need of my care."

"I understand, your Holiness," Carmen said. Her eyes flickered down, just for a moment, to the bandages around her leg. "I... Will I walk again?"

Celestine reached over, gently taking her uninjured hand. Carmen's fingers twitched under her touch, almost as if she were going to pull her hand away. But she didn't. Instead, her grip tightened, the tendons in her hand tensing.

"I am sorry." Celestine squeezed her hand. "I can mend your wounds. I can restore your health. I can heal the pain you feel. But I cannot make what is lost return."

Carmen's jaw tightened, her expression falling. She looked away, her lips pressed together. Again, she said, "I understand." Her voice was strained.

"Close your eyes, if you would."

Carmen did so, and Celestine leaned forward, one hand reaching out to embrace her. She pressed her lips to Carmen's brow. She could sense Carmen's pain. It was a dull ache that throbbed, a constant presence at the edge of her mind. Within Celestine's chest, something stirred, a furnace that roared to life, a spark growing into a flame.

And then she pulled away.

Carmen opened her eyes, blinking blearily up at her. Her pallor faded, color returning to her cheeks, her breath easing. Slowly, hesitantly, she began to flex her arm, moving it experimentally. When her fingers and wrist were no longer stiff and sore, she carefully undid the sling, pulling it away.

"I am sorry, Carmen. I wish I could do more for you."

She looked at her hands, then back at Celestine, her mouth slightly agape. "You- This is-" She stopped, her throat working, her expression caught between awe and disbelief, eyes brimming with tears. "Thank you," Carmen finally said, her voice quiet. "This is more than I could've... it's incredible your Holiness. Thank you."

Celestine offered a smile, a warm expression that touched her eyes. Then, she stood.

She passed along every cot, every bed. Every patient, every occupant, received her attention. She stopped by each of them, pausing to kneel by their side. Whether they be soldier, civilian, or refugee, she gave them her ear. She listened to their pain. She listened to their troubles, their hopes, and their fears. And, in turn, she gave them comfort, tending to their ailments. There was only so much even one such as she could do for them. Even so, every ounce of the effort was worth it.

She stopped at one child's bed, and paused.

The boy simply lay there, reclining against a mass of pillows, his head propped up, his face turned to the window. The light, streaming through the glass, cast a dim glow about the room, muted by the shutters.

He was a pale young man, a slight figure that barely made a lump under the covers. Shaggy blonde hair obscured his features, and an assortment of bandages covered his body, their white cloth stark and almost glowing in the shadows.

"Hello," Celestine said. Her voice was a quiet one, the sound of it almost seeming to echo in the silence.

He did not stir. His eyes remained fixated on the sky outside, where the stars were beginning to make themselves visible against the dusk.

She approached, her feet making no noise on the carpeted floor.

"I don't mean to disturb you, but may I have a moment of your time?" Celestine began to ask. The words that actually left her were, "Do you still dream about them?"

He started at that, his shoulders stiffening briefly. He turned at last, brown eyes looking up towards her, searching her features. "...I do. Every night. And even when I'm awake, it's the only thought I can hold on to. It's the only thing that feels real anymore."

She knelt by his bedside, beginning to reach a hand forward—only to hesitate. Pascal's fingers curled back. His gaze remained fixated on the world beyond his window. He continued to speak, tone hollow, voice low and distant. "Stay away from me, Christelle. You'll only get hurt."

"Pascal," she said. It was not a request, but an entreaty. "Pascal, look at me."

And he did.

She had always known him as a vibrant, energetic soul, full of passion and vigor, but with a gentle strength beneath it all. A boy that was always full of energy and drive.

There was no vibrancy. There was no spark. And yet, his eyes were still a sharp blue. Something was buried beneath them, some steely coldness, something that did not belong there, did not belong in him.

Christelle couldn't stop herself from flinching and averting her eyes. For a moment, she even forgot to breathe.

He noticed her hesitation. The moment drew out between them. "Do I scare you now?"

"You do not." The answer was immediate, a reflex.

She could see his lips quirk up from the corner of her eyes, mirthless and dry. A bad parody of a familiar expression. "You're a bad liar."

Christelle breathed in, deep, and the air burned her lungs, harsh. "You... are different." Her throat tightened. "That's true. I'm sorry. But I am not afraid."

She closed the rest of the distance, resting her hand on his, fingers gently wrapping around it. It was the same as she remembered it being, soft and smooth and cool to the touch. Pascal always ran a bit cold, even on the warmest of days, when the sun burned down on them and sweat dripped down their skin.

"Pascal... Brother... I am here," Christelle said. Her fingers squeezed.

Beneath her palm, his fingers remained motionless, limp. But he didn't pull his hand away.

Christelle spoke in a quiet, calm, steady tone, almost soothing in a way, as she spoke. "I... I do not understand what you're feeling right now, brother. I do not understand what you've seen. And that is a great, terrible thing, a burden. And yet... you must know that it does not make you less."

Pascal was silent for a time, the words hanging between them, in the air. His fingers twitched, almost as if they wished to tighten into fists. But he did not speak.

And Christelle began to release him, only for his fingers to grip back at the last second, weak, but with some urgency, pulling her back. She looked at his face, then. His eyes had become slightly more animated. There was something in his gaze.

She wished that there hadn't been anything there. She wished he had just remained empty.

His lips were pulled back, teeth clenched together, brow furrowed in some wild emotion, some madness. It was anger, maybe, but more than that, it was fear and disgust, his mouth curled into a snarl of hate, but his eyes, wide and red-rimmed and watery, held something that made her wish it was merely loathing, as he asked the impossible of her:

"Lend me your strength."

It wasn't even a plea. It was a command, an order that he demanded of her, and expected her to give, to deliver.

"Pascal, I..." Christelle drew in a shaky breath. Her skin seemed to crawl, and she was dimly aware of how fast her heart was pounding.

"You are divinity made flesh, Christelle. Reborn. The light of your grace can smite any abomination before you. Purge the world of this evil." The words came out like the flat crack of a whip. "Help me go back and tear it to pieces, 'till not even the wind will touch it again."

The hand that clasped at hers began to tremble. Behind that fog of rage and hatred, there was desperation. He needed her help.

And, for a moment, she hated him for it.

A lump formed in her throat, making it hard for her to swallow. She wanted to be angry at him. She wanted to be afraid of him, and of his hatred. She wanted to strike him for asking her to bear his burden. For a brief, furious moment, she wished he would let go.

And then it passed. The fury gave way to sadness, to fear. She thought, for a moment, she was on the verge of tears. "You do not know what you are asking of me, brother. I'm only a girl," Christelle said, and even she knew her own words rang hollow.

Pascal nodded. "I know that." Slowly, shakily, he placed his other hand upon hers. The broken fingers of his right hand, mangled, barely twitched at his command. "But you can be more. I swear it—I'll erase every last trace of the aberrants from—"

"Your Holiness?"

Christelle glanced towards the sound. Brother Fabian's brows had raised, his mouth set in a firm line. "Are you well, your Holiness?"

Celestine stared back at him for a moment, unblinking. "I... Yes? Brother Fabian, were you saying something?"

Brother Fabian paused, then frowned. "You seemed distracted. I spoke to you, but you were unresponsive. Is something amiss?"

She glanced at the others, then to the patients around her, all of them looking at her, then back at Fabian. She could see their faces clearly, despite the darkness. They all stared, expectantly. She was silent for a moment. "Nothing," Celestine finally said, voice quiet, eyes darting back towards an empty chair beside a bare table. She shook her head. "I was only... lost in thought."

Brother Fabian nodded after a moment of hesitation, offering her his arm. "Shall we move on, your Holiness? There are more who could use your assistance."

"Yes, we shall," Celestine murmured. "Thank you."

Some odd sensation remained at the forefront of her mind throughout her work, like a faint tickle at the back of her head, a vague shape beneath a shallow, murky surface. Something she'd forgotten, but only barely. She couldn't quite put a finger to it.

But her work had never stopped, even when such things came to mind. There were the people that needed her help, and she would never abandon them, just as she knew they would not abandon her.

They continued on their way through the hospital, making their rounds, and Celestine's touch healed many more that morning. A young child who suffered a terrible fever. An older gentleman whose bones were brittle and sore. A young woman who'd lost a hand to a manticore. A girl whose burns refused to heal. A woman who could barely breathe without wheezing. And a man whose leg had been crushed. All of them were afflicted.

Her Dawn Templars escorted her through the halls, remaining ever at the edge of her peripheral vision, followed close behind, never once straying. The hospital was large, a maze of corridors, but Celestine moved as one familiar with it, having come here often for years now.

Brother Fabian remained beside her as she went about her work, speaking softly as he recounted to her the condition of each person she came across. She offered her best care and healing to those most in need, and only then did she turn to the less wounded.

The sun was at its zenith, sitting directly overhead in the clear, cloudless sky when Fabian softly insisted that they pause for luncheon. Their procession retreated to a well-groomed garden at the center of the complex, stretched between three high hedges. Benches, chairs and tables, some with canopies, were neatly placed within and about the many flower beds and hedgerows and small ponds. A nurse, a young man with freckled features and a small mustache, quickly fell into a bow and excused himself as he recognized them and her entourage made themselves comfortable in a private corner of the garden.

The meal was a light affair. A selection of various foods, all the colors of the rainbow, with a light broth in a large bowl set in the center of the table for each person, for the meal.

There had once been a time when the Templars had declined to eat in her presence, much less partake in the same meal, as though there were some taboo about it, that doing so was a sacrilege, perhaps. Her unending insistence and the years that followed eventually eroded that practice. Now, the habit was an old one that they all indulged in together, as one. She made sure to smile and engage the others as they ate, chatting lightly even as they shared jests and banter amongst each other.

It was pleasant. Peaceful. Calming, even.

It wasn't until she felt an—

—arm wrap around her shoulder in a gentle half-embrace that Celestine looked up and realized she'd almost drifted to sleep in her seat. She blinked slowly, and offered Jochen a grateful smile. Her husband laughed and smiled back, and she leaned into him, relishing the warmth.

"Was I asleep long?" she asked.

"Not long," Jochen said, reaching a hand over to ruffle her hair, like a child's. "It's a shame you couldn't have rested more before beginning your crafts, though. But... duty calls."

"Duty calls," Ottila nodded, almost ruefully, eyes fluttering closed as she enjoyed the attention, feeling her drowsiness ebb away. It was still early, not quite midday yet. Plenty of time left to work with.

Ottila straightened, gently patting the arm around her in a half-embrace as she rose to her feet, smoothing the skirts of her white and golden gown. Jochen, as well, stood to join her.

The palace was still new to her, fresh almost, despite the year she had already spent residing in it. The stone was still pale and pristine, not yet dulled with age, or marred with weathering, with a brightness that only served to contrast the deep, vibrant crimson that adorned many of the palace's tapestries, drapes, and other decorations. Many of the halls had been unroofed to the sky. The sun shone down through the arched ceiling, where glass panes separated the outer air from the interior, the rays casting light down upon the marble flooring. The pillars were great, carved stone that stretched towards the heavens.

Indeed, Ottila was certain that she could spend hours upon hours wandering those halls and still not grow familiar with them. That the likes of her, a simple country preacher, should be allowed to freely tread such a place was still a wonder to her. Even more so, that the duke would take her for a wife.

Alone as they were, his arm settled around her waist, drawing her close to him in an intimate, comfortable manner. The weight and heat of his arm and his body was a pleasant thing. Ottila found herself smiling, eyes half-closing, as she leaned against him.

The tall passage they walked along ended abruptly, opening into a narrower room, straight and rectangular, where two wings of the palace met and connected with the great dome-topped entrance.

Like many rulers, her husband held court in a grand hall, wide and open, larger than most houses she had known at Blumendorf, large enough to host the many petitioners who wished to beg his favor or judgment.

Ottila eschewed the splendor and pomp of such a gathering for the simpler, quieter pleasures of the chapel. Wooden pews rather than jeweled thrones. A carpet of rushes rather than polished stone. An airy ceiling rather than one supported by ornate columns. That was where she held her court, where any and all might come to pray with her.

Jochen sighed beside her, and the sound, so faint and quiet that she barely heard it, brought her out of her thoughts. "I'll expand it soon enough," he murmured, gesturing about the chapel. "Make it into something befitting you. You deserve a place like that, Otti, where all may come."

Ottila couldn't stop herself from letting out a small laugh, the sound muffled behind one hand, shaking her head. He meant it; the truth in his eyes, the tone of his words, and his face was so genuine, so earnest. He was beautiful to behold, in every sense. Her dear Jochen.

Ottila rested one hand atop his, and her voice, when she spoke, was warm. "Jochen, it's fine, really. You have given me more than I could ever ask for."

"Have I, really?" He grinned back. "It seems like you never ask for enough, then. If you truly are happy with it, then so be it. Still, I promise that I—"

—She was struggling for breath.

One hand pressed futilely around her stomach, where blood had begun to seep through her fingers and the cloth, spilling through. The other was useless, a mangled mess of ruined flesh that oozed. A familiar feeling, somehow. She should have recognized it for what it was.

She was vaguely aware that she'd slumped against one of the pews. Jochen, dear sweet Jochen, dragged himself over to her side, eyes wide, blood pouring down his chin. The five aberrants lied bonelessly around them, some groaning weakly, others silent and still, as death claimed them.

"Don't... don't close your eyes," he managed to gasp. He choked. Blood spattered down his chin and onto her face, droplets dotting her skin and clothes. He tried to wipe away the blood with his hand. There was something in his eyes, something that made them seem brighter and wet. "Stay with me, Otti. You'll be fine. Everything'll be fine," he said, as if to console her. As if his death, and hers, had not been inevitable from the moment she was brought into this world.

There was shouting and panic, more panic, more and more. Screaming and shouting at the top of their lungs, some armsmen—Edric? Mikhail?—broke free of the skirmish, stumbling as they rushed down the hall towards them. One of the assassins, a gaunt Orc, fell under a hail of arrows as a guard squad rallied, closing the distance to fight at closer quarters. A pair of them were cut down by aberrants as they drew close. Still, the armsmen kept pushing towards their lieges.

The intent was clear to her, even then. Mikhail had some knowledge of medicine and could, perhaps, buy time for a wounded man in a battlefield.

Ottila didn't think she could bring herself to care, to pay it much mind. Everything had taken on an almost surreal quality. Everything was dull and muted, her eyes only fixated on her husband's face, on his eyes and his smile and the tears that she hadn't noticed until then.

The child within her had passed. Soon, she would join them, too. But Jochen? Her Jochen? He deserved more than this miserable end, torn and ripped apart with a family that would never be born. He deserved so much better.

"Don't close your eyes. Don't go to sleep." Her vision blurred. Jochen's words seemed far away. And, despite all she was and was not, Ottila reached forward, her bloodied hand touching his face. The mangled, broken one, she drew to her chest.

"Drink," she found herself speaking, the words leaving her lips like the whisper of the wind through a field, the sound of water over rocks. "Drink," she said again, pressing her hand against Jochen's lips. "And live," she said.

"Otti..." Her name escaped his lips. There was something in his eyes that made her want to weep, too. Something that made her heart ache. He looked... so sad, and yet…

"Live for us," Celestine said, one hand stretched out above her, not quite reaching the bed's canopy.

She stopped. Stared up, unblinking, at the patterns on the cloth. Then she bolted upright, teeth clenching, her head swimming with a sudden rush of emotion, an explosion of grief, and she thought she was drowning in it, she was burning and freezing and gasping all at once.

Celestine's skin prickled, sticky with sweat. She was aware of the room around her, but at the same time, her eyes focused on the middle-distance, at a far-away point that wasn't there anymore. She struggled onto her feet, supporting her swaying form with one hand braced on the bed, the sheets, the blankets. She was back at the grand temple of Laurentia. Her bedchambers. When? How? She had no recollection of arriving, but it was familiar at the very least. And just ouside her door, a Templar would surely be waiting.

"Kamile... Kamile!" She called out. Her throat constricted, making her words sound like little more than a hoarse, croaking noise, "Kamile!"

Each step towards the door felt like she was wading through water, as though something was slowing her down. She fumbled with the latch, throwing it open, almost falling forward as the door opened for her. She staggered through the threshold. She saw, briefly, the light of the oil lamps as she passed them, before her eyes fell on her mother.

"Ivriniel," her mother said, half-sigh, half-laugh, kneeling down to lift her off the ground. Her hands were soft, pale things. Beautiful. Like little doves. They looked almost delicate enough that the smallest touch might shatter them. She looked down at Ivriniel, one brow arched, "Is it not your bedtime already?"

"...Holiness!"

Her mother's gaze turned from her to Kamile.

Kamile, who came to her side, one hand supporting her, the other prepared to draw a blade. "Your Holiness," she said, eyes wide, lips a grim line. "Martin! Danielle! To me!" Kamile's voice rang like the crash of the ocean, and yet, at the same time, her words were gentle. Her grip on her shoulder was gentle as she looked her in the eye, her fingers squeezing. "Are you hurt? Where is the harm?"

Kamile was still speaking to her.

Ivriniel looked away from her...

Mother's…

Celestine bit her lip hard, forcing herself to focus, her thoughts a whirlwind. "Not hurt," Celestine mumbled. "I need—I have to... unwell. I feel... unwell," she managed, words almost coming out in a babble. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, the world around her swimming. "I need air," Celestine managed.

Kamile nodded, lips twisting. Her blonde—No. Brown—brown hair glistened in the candlelight. "Unwell, then," Kamile said. The other two Templars arrived at her side in a moment, and she spoke, "We should bring you to doctor Schröder, your Holiness. If you've fallen ill, or..." she trailed off, hesitating. "Is—Could it be you were having a vision?"

"No." Celestine shook her head, weakly at first, and then vigorously. "Not... not a vision. It's never been anything like this." Celestine took in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. It left her feeling dizzy. The air, too, had taken on a strange smell to it, and she wondered, if only briefly, if something had gone amiss with the camp's fires.

What camp? There was no camp. She was in Geofu. In the great temple.

They were walking now, she realized. Her Templars had formed up into a semicircle around her, Kamile still supporting her on one side, a hand resting on the pommel of her sword. There were more of them coming, their eyes wide and alert.

"It was..." she paused. It felt like a dream, in a way. Muddled, half-forgotten... But still fresh. The sights she saw of the future were more concrete, more distant, as though she were watching it happen through a looking glass; and yet they remained forever clear in her mind. This felt too close, too real. As if the blood of the dying man had soaked into her hands and clothes, the taste of his breath, of his life, upon her lips. The sensation lingered.

"Where are we going?" Celestine found herself asking.

Kamile frowned down at her, a wrinkle forming in her brow. "You're unwell, your Holiness. The doctor needs to see you, to examine you, make certain you're fine."

Celestine swallowed and nodded. She should feel sick, maybe. Her stomach, however, was settled. The fear was receding. "Very well." She allowed herself to lean a bit more on Kamile, though, to be honest, she felt…

...Heavy. Like his lungs were going to burst. His hands weren't trembling anymore, at least. But his fingers were so tight on his sword that his knuckles creaked and ached against the hilt.

Ariedel still stood in his path, eyes filled with grief. Fear. Defiance. Even as her brother's corpse lay on the dirt at her feet, she still looked as if she'd jump at him bare-handed, if he tried to approach.

Heinrich couldn't help but pause. A small, sensible part of his mind—the only part, he thought, that remained—was in awe at that; That selfless devotion, that courage, to place the welfare of the few, of one, above her own. It made sense. In her eyes, he was the villain, wasn't he?

A traitor, oath-breaker, liar. And murderer.

"Please," he said. His voice came out rough, cracked. He raised his blade. The blood—the blood of his friends, the people he'd sworn an oath to protect, to defend, to lay down his own life if need be—was still wet on it, glistening. "Don't fight me on this, Ari. Just... move."

As if she'd ever do that. 'Just move aside and let me kill your child.' What kind of monster would ever agree to that?

Ariedel swallowed, and he saw the lump go down her throat. But she only spread her arms, fists coming up, bringing herself between him and the two young girls. Her face was wet with tears, and the lines in her expression deepened with fear, with anger, with the desperation she must have.

She'd always been strong like that. Strong when he couldn't be.

"Dammit," he whispered as she lunged forward. He saw the arc of her arm as it swung up and around, in some desperate attempt to hit him. His riposte was perfect; Tip unwavering, plunging forward, parting ribs, piercing the heart, in one smooth motion. The weight of her body falling on him made Heinrich stagger backwards. The tip of his blade caught in her ribcage as it tore through, ripping out with a crack, wet with blood. Ariedel slumped against his side, breathless.

"Idiot. You damnable idiot," he said, gritting his teeth as he hugged her, cradled her. He closed his eyes, leaning down to rest his head atop hers as her legs gave out, her body going limp, eyes vacant, glassy and unfocused.

Just another sworn sister he loved and respected, slain for the sake of a monster. What kind of bastard fate had turned lawful sense so upside down?

Heinrich eased the body down, even as the two girls cried out for her. The younger one, just barely ten, stared at him with tear-filled eyes. Her face was twisted up into something like a snarl. Something like hate. Gods... She was going to throw her life away, too.

And the other…

Heinrich…

Celestine felt the sensation fall upon her, a heavy blanket overwhelming all other thought. Just as mortal men needed to eat and drink to live, Celestine found herself needing this, to end that child's life. She needed to wrap her hands around her throat, to sink the blade deep into her heart. There was no other choice—Not any more. Too much blood had already been shed, and even more still would because of her.

For Man and all his kin, for all of Serenus, those miserable green eyes had to be shut forever.

Celestine's veins boiled with that terrible determination, roiling under her skin. It burned under her flesh, through her lungs, and her throat felt as though she'd swallowed something too hot. Celestine clenched her teeth as her hands found purchase around a throat. It felt fragile beneath her grip, the muscles twitching. The skin was soft to the touch, and the pulse raced beneath the surface, as though it were some frightened little thing.

But she had to crush it all the same, had to put out its light, and save the world from her existence. Celestine tightened her grip. A hand came up, a fist weakly clenching, fingers uselessly scrabbling at her. There was fear in those eyes now, fear and terror. The lips quivered and mouthed something in desperate, futile appeal, in the hope that she would show mercy, even as tears ran down their cheeks, wet and warm and hot.

Her fingers squeezed, as she bore down and crushed the throat in her grip. Her fingers were almost numb, but still, she could feel the tension in it, like some tight rope.

"Celestine... Please...!"

Heinrich... Celestine stopped squeezing. She stopped breathing. She stopped and blinked, slowly, the world seeming to rush back around her. The candlelight within the corridor seemed all the brighter, all the more vivid. She found herself gasping for air, almost breathless, as the sensation left her as suddenly as it came.

Kamile, still in her grasp, looked up at her, terrified and pleading. Around her, the Templars stood frozen, hands on their weapons, caught between defending their comrade and safeguarding Celestine. Celestine's breath hitched, and she let go, practically scrambling away from Kamile, from all of them. "I... I... Kamile... I'm..."

Kamile stumbled backwards, gasping for breath, hands rubbing at her bruised throat, wincing at the pain. The other Templars quickly gathered around her, but Celestine found she couldn't focus on any of them. Instead, she was left to stare down at her hands, almost numb. She swallowed, lips trembling as her fingers curled. Her vision blurred, eyes burning with hot tears. "Kamile, I- I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me... I-"

The other Templars had moved, without thinking, to interpose themselves between the two. And though not a single one of them dared to draw steel on their goddess, the tension was clear in their postures. Kamile looked up, her expression stricken, eyes red. She held her gaze for a moment, a single moment. Celestine could see the hurt, the terror. She was afraid. Kamile was afraid.

Of her.

In all honesty, I... am not completely satisfied with this. But I realized that if I just kept beating my head against the chapter, it would never come out at all.