As they returned to the Nexus, something seemed amiss, though Ostrava couldn't quite place his finger on what. The air was thick and heavy, the shadows somehow deeper, threatening to consume him whole.

Perhaps he should have given these warnings more heed, but time was short. Over his shoulder, Alvira was rapidly declining. He could feel her muscles weakening as her life slipped away, her body becoming a deadweight while he dragged her along. He couldn't bear to watch her die again, especially knowing that he hadn't been there to help her avoid it.

"Brother Sabrathan?" Ostrava called, his voice ringing through the emptiness. He received no response. He opened his mouth to try again, only, a scream was ripped from his throat instead when he felt the zing of cold steel carve into his back, warmed by his own blood.

Alvira fell flaccid to the ground when Ostrava involuntarily threw her aside, unconscious. He spun on his heel, acting on instinct with his sword in hand. He retaliated with a swift sideways cut to his assailant's neck… or rather, the place where it should have been.

He questioned whether or not anyone was there, until his eyes fully adjusted to the darkness. He could see a face, and one he recognized at that. Reflecting his own wide-eyed expression back at him was the surprised visage of the crestfallen warrior, quite literally a shadow of his former self. There was a lack of something important in his eyes, something retained even in a bound soul's deathly state when all else had fled: sentience. All Ostrava saw there was madness and crazed desperation.

To Ostrava, time had ceased to flow. He regarded the shift in the other man in slow motion. Shock became a twinge of something akin to recognition, though it wasn't quite the same. And then… serenity.

Ostrava reached out, desiring nothing more than to apologize, to atone, but it made little difference. His hand slipped through the last vestiges of the man's ethereal form as they tore apart and drifted away. A small ting drew his eyes to the ground, the only remnant of the slain soul: the Nexial Binding, shaped like a prisoner's shackle. It glinted back at him, though Ostrava dared not touch it.

"Ostrava?" an excitable voice answered, blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil. He felt so many emotions at once that they canceled each other out, leaving him numb as his eyes drifted to the one that had called his name. He shook his head, remembering the task at hand and lifting Alvira from the floor while mumbling an apology to her, uncaring of the fact that she couldn't even hear him.

"Elijah… please, assist me," Ostrava instructed the acolyte in an uncharacteristic monotone. He wanted to have Sabrathan look her over, to spare her another needless death. Having just witnessed one, he wasn't too keen for a repeat.

His brow furrowed when Elijah led him in a different direction, away from Sabrathan's typical refuge. "Where are we going?" he inquired, scanning the area in preparation of pulling Alvira away once he found the priest.

"We're taking her to see the Saint!" Elijah replied cheerfully. It was the happiest Ostrava had ever seen him, countering his own souring mood. It almost felt like an affront to him, though rationally, he knew it wasn't.

"The Saint?" Ostrava echoed. "Where is Brother Sabrathan?"

Elijah's spine stiffened at the mention of the priest. "Uh, well, you see…" he hesitated before trailing off. He craned his head in the other direction, as far away from Ostrava's obtrusive gaze as he could manage without breaking his neck, his words failing.

Ostrava didn't attempt to wrangle an explanation out of him, distracted by his own galling thoughts. It didn't matter so long as Alvira got the care that she needed. That was his only concern.

As they rounded a pillar, Ostrava was greeted with a peculiar sight. A middle-aged man with graying, bowl-cut hair and matching stubble sat on his knees, draped in a rich white silk decorated with golden embroidery that would typically be reserved only for the royal class. He was surrounded by candles, yet the more Ostrava looked, the more he realized that the man emitted his own light. It warmed the air around them, caressing Ostrava's skin and offering comfort. The negativity melted away, leaving him almost weightless and unburdened.

"Umbasa…" the Saint hummed. His eyes were shut, his fingers steepled together in prayer. He appeared to be meditating, unresponsive to their approach. "Umbasa…"

Without prompting, the man's eyes opened, his head snapping in Alvira's direction. They followed her, glued to her helmet. The man didn't even so much as address either him or Elijah. It was as if he was in a trance, but the way he looked at her was almost possessive. It made Ostrava's skin crawl, yet he was still at ease, almost like something was forcing him to be complacent.

"Saint Urbain, she's returned!" Elijah announced, guiding Ostrava to set Alvira down in front of him. The Saint's gaze never left her, still neglecting to spare the two men so much as a glance. His eyes raked over Alvira's prone form reverently, and to this end, Ostrava finally felt a spark of subdued anger in his chest.

"Do not-" he started to protest, only, Saint Urbain had begun to speak at the same time, his booming voice overpowering Ostrava's.

"You are God's chosen," he said, talking directly to Alvira. It would be no surprise that she lacked a response, but he continued undeterred. "The one He told me about…"

He extended his hands mindfully, cupping the sides of Alvira's helmet as he shifted to lean over her. Ostrava stepped forward, finding the action far too intimate and inappropriate, but Elijah pulled him back just as he was reaching for his sword.

"Saint Urbain communes directly with God," he informed Ostrava, awestruck. Ostrava almost didn't hear him, focused more on the older man's strange mannerisms. "Watch closely."

As if Ostrava needed to be told that. The Saint had busied himself with lifting Alvira's helmet from her head. Her face was caked in dried blood and sweat that had leaked into her hairline, causing the blonde strands to stick to her cheeks and brow. The breath caught in his throat when he looked upon her, born from deference rather than concern.

"You are beautiful, like a divine angel," Saint Urbain murmured, his brown eyes gleaming as his fingers brushed away some of the grime tainting her porcelain skin. Just when Ostrava had had enough, his vision was blotted out by an eruption of light.

He yelped and was forced to backtrack. His retinas burned, and he saw splotches in the blackness behind his eyelids, attempting to rub them away. The effort proved futile with his helmet blocking his hands.

They watered when he finally managed to pry them open, but he forgot his anger when he saw Alvira sitting upright. The blood was gone, allowing her features to shine through. Ostrava couldn't get to her fast enough, nearly tripping over himself as he stumbled awkwardly to her side.

"Alvira… how are you faring?" Ostrava inquired, leaning a bit too close to her. Alvira didn't seem to mind, looking upon him with equal fondness.

"I'm alive," she answered with a gentle smile gracing her lips. Relief washed over him. For once, he had reacted in time and hadn't utterly failed her.

The world around him obscured as he gazed into her green irises, once more brimming with life. It was a sight he would never tire of, seeing her so vibrant. Acting on impulse, he made to embrace her, only for reality to rear its ugly head in the form of Saint Urbain's voice.

"Slayer of Demons," he addressed her. Ostrava and Alvira turned to face him in unison, one quizzical, the other glowering. "At last, I am blessed with your presence."

She wasn't accustomed to being spoken to in such a way. The man's voice shook, like he was actually in the presence of the divine.

"Who are you?" Alvira asked, not recognizing the man. He was a newcomer to the Nexus, most likely having arrived while she was away on her last hunt.

"This is Saint Urbain!" another voice interjected. When she heard it, her attention was immediately snatched away.

"Elijah?" Alvira rose to her feet, examining the younger man. Now that she'd met the Saint, his resemblance to him was uncanny. Elijah mimicked not only his haircut, but his enthusiasm. "Has Brother Sabrathan returned with you?"

The blood drained from Elijah's face. He bit his lip and wrung his hands, his head downcast to the floor. When he didn't answer, Alvira's eyes narrowed, and she advanced upon him.

"Where is he?" Alvira tried again. Elijah could not evade her questions forever, even if he gave a valiant effort in doing so.

"I… he…" he stammered. Alvira's expression was unreadable as she pressed once more.

"Where is he?" she repeated more firmly. Elijah's lip started to quiver, and he squeezed his eyes closed.

"He is... dead."

Alvira became still. Ostrava's jaw dropped at the revelation, his head swiveling between them. Elijah looked to Alvira with uncertainty while she stared back, visibly struggling to comprehend what she had just heard.

Then, Elijah was on the ground, clutching at his face and pitching a loud, distressed whine while scrabbling at his busted cheek. Alvira stormed after him, her unbridled fury burning hotter than any fire.

"You left him to die?" Alvira snarled, grabbing the young acolyte by the scruff and backhanding the other side of his face. Each strike was so powerful that the bones cracked and shattered, making him nearly unrecognizable. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and his jaw slackened, dislocated and bobbing sickly from his skull.

Ostrava had never witnessed Alvira like this. Her pupils were blown wide, a yearning hunger for retribution nearly swallowing each iris. The air crackled with power around them, beginning to swirl into a cyclone. Elijah clung to her weakly, begging her silently to stop, but she would have no mercy.

"Alvira, wait!" Ostrava yelled, pushing his way through the raging current. Alvira ignored him.

"I'll kill you!" she screeched, an unholy sound that grated Ostrava's ears. The hair on the back of her neck lifted, and she raised her hand as if to strike Elijah again. The next blow would undoubtedly end him.

Ostrava made it just in time, snatching her wrist. Alvira's fingers curled and flexed, and she glared at him out the corner of her eye.

"Stop, Alvira! What are you doing?" Ostrava pleaded. There was so much darkness, like a shadow had attached itself to her. He'd never known that she was capable of such violence.

"Let me go," Alvira groused, "or I'll kill you, too!"

Taken aback, Ostrava released her, bewildered and hurt. That reaction yanked her out of whatever phantasm she'd been in. She looked at him, and then to Elijah's battered face, his arms now hanging at his sides as his glassy eyes drooped halfway. He'd been beaten to the edge of his life and was hanging on only by a thread.

Saint Urbain brushed past her wordlessly, gathering Elijah into his arms. At his mere touch alone, Elijah's features were put back into place. He did not wake, although the Saint didn't seem worried.

"Stay your hatred for the demons, Alvira, for they are the ones that took his life," Urbain offered sagely, giving her a nod. He was correct, of course. She wasn't sure what had come over her just then. It was one thing to lash out against an innocent man, but to threaten Ostrava?

Alvira peered at him, apologetic and grief-stricken. She wanted to weep, but the tears would not come. Ostrava maintained his distance, now too afraid to draw near.

It was too much. She turned her back to him and ran as quickly as her legs would carry her. Just his eyes alone conveyed his pain and suspicion. They would forever be branded into her memory to haunt her until the end of days.

In spite of her outburst, Ostrava stepped forward to follow her, the decision automatic before he thought better of it. He needed space to understand what had just transpired between them, and he was sure that she did, too.

Ostrava went the opposite way Alvira had gone, leaving Saint Urbain to clean up the blood she had spilled alone.

It wasn't right. This was unjust.

Crouching in prayer, Alvira clenched so tightly to her talisman that her hands rattled. It remained inert, showcasing God's indifference to her plight.

"God… why?" she whispered. She felt as if she was speaking only to herself, that God was ignoring her once more. "Why do You strike down Your own servants? Are You truly so cruel?"

Sabrathan had been a bastion of faith. Never once had he shown doubt, and what had he gained in turn? He had not simply died, but his soul had been stolen, denying him his rightful place in the afterlife.

Meanwhile, He had spared Elijah's pitiful life. That useless wretch, constantly running, betraying God's most loyal. He should have been the one taken, not Sabrathan.

Alvira gritted her teeth and swung her head side to side. No, that wasn't proper. To wish a fate so horrible upon anyone was ungodly, demonic even, but the idea wouldn't leave her. In fact, she felt a coil of satisfaction when she imagined the light leaving his eyes as his soul was devoured…

No. How could she allow her mind to be plagued with such sinful rhetoric? It was not her place to judge. Surely, God had His reasons. He was all knowing. Perhaps Sabrathan's destiny had been earned.

Her stomach twisted into a knot. It simply could not be so. Regardless of his past life, Sabrathan had been devout. She had seen it. The church taught that God would forgive one's sins when they came to Him. Unless Sabrathan had been actively rebelling against Him?

None of it was making sense, and as had become increasingly common of late, God wasn't answering her prayers. Why was it always when she needed Him most that He wasn't there?

"Alvira?"

She opened her eyes, her hands separating. The voice that had spoken her name was dejected, tugging at her heart, but she forced herself to face him anyway.

"Ostrava… I'm sorry," she confessed weakly. He took a few slow steps toward her, stopping outside of her reach. He was still afraid.

"Please, forgive me." Her voice wavered, and again she saw his eyes, pained from her treachery, his trust broken. She was a monster.

"I do," Ostrava replied effortlessly. Her eyes crinkled with confusion, to which he continued, "I know that you would not harm me, Alvira. I have seen firsthand how anguish can twist one's words and actions."

She had not mourned appropriately, though when he said those words, a single tear snuck free. He joined her upon the ground, brushing it away. The cold metal of his armor was a poor substitute for flesh, but she accepted his kindness gratefully.

"I'm undeserving of your forgiveness," she said, even as she leaned into his touch. She needed him now more than ever.

"That is not true." Ostrava took her into his arms, sensing that she was distraught. She followed without objection, giving him free rein. He consoled her like it was natural, pulling her back against his breast while he reclined against the wall. He kept his arms respectfully around her waist, and when he spoke again, his voice was an octave lower. "I owe you many lifetimes of debt and gratitude. Forgiveness is nothing in comparison."

Alvira lacked the means to express the cocktail of emotions swelling in her chest. It was like a hot knife had been buried in her heart, but the warmth of it spread through her and quelled the tempest inside, leaving her wounded, yet at peace.

"I adore you."

The statement was unbidden, slipping through his lips before he could catch it. It lingered in the air, and when she started to tremble, he wished only to take it back.

"I-I am sorry… I should not have-"

"It's okay, Ostrava." Alvira cut him off before he could begin to ramble. The true meaning of what he'd just admitted flew over her head, mistaken for mere courtesy. "I understand."

She didn't, but Ostrava wouldn't correct her. Neither said anything else, not wanting to pollute the moment with speech. Ostrava reveled in it.

He needed her, too.