The morning sun cut through the Borderlands' mist, painting the new altar in a false, warm gold. Villagers, compelled to gather in the central square, stood in an atmosphere of enforced solemnity.
Then Erika appeared.
He was clad in an overly large, white robe embroidered with golden Auric Mark symbols. The garment created a ghastly contrast with his pale, gaunt face and hollow, vacant eyes. He was no longer the shepherd who smelled of earth, but a carefully dressed puppet put on display. Two fully armored Auric Guard soldiers flanked him, practically propping him up; his steps were unsteady, as if he might collapse at any moment.
Priest Balthasar led the way, his voice magically amplified to reach every corner. "Behold! The living proof of one who strayed from the Light and has now returned to the faith! A testament to our Lord's boundless might and mercy! Once lost in darkness, his soul is now pure as virgin snow, destined for the Holy Sanctum to bear supreme glory!"
The procession began its slow march along the village's main path—a meticulously orchestrated "gilded tour." The villagers watched in a silence where fear crushed all other emotions. They saw Erika's empty gaze sweep over them without focus, as if looking at stones. Children were held tightly, afraid to make a sound. Old Sackman stood at the back of the crowd, his fists clenching and unclenching helplessly at his sides. The herb-woman bowed her head, using her shawl to hide the despair in her eyes.
Erika's mind floated on a thick, golden sea. Below were muffled noises and distorted faces. He heard Balthasar's voice, the words about "purity" and "glory," but they felt distant, separated from the frozen lake his heart had become by a pane of thick glass. Occasionally, a faint, old sting tried to surface—the shadow of the great oak, the coolness of well water, the sound of his flock—but it was instantly crushed by the pervasive golden energy field around him and the constant, soothing (or suppressing) pulse from the badge on his chest.
The procession ended. Erika was led back to the contemplation cell beside the altar, put away like a displayed object whose use was over.
That night, deep silence fell.
Balthasar stood alone atop the altar, holding a complex, small golden disc inscribed with the Mark. He channeled a trickle of energy into it. The disc hovered, emitting a soft, steady light that projected a blurred, haloed humanoid figure—a Keeper from the Clerical Division, emanating a far purer and more potent energy signature than Balthasar himself.
"Honored One." Balthasar bowed, his tone utterly deferential. "The 'First-Born Vessel' is prepared. After complete purification, his soul shows a rare level of clarity, suitable as an offering for the Sanctum."
The Keeper's apparition remained silent for a moment. An intangible awareness swept toward the contemplation cell, inspecting Erika from a distance.
"The soul... is indeed clear of dross, as you report," a voice, cold and utterly devoid of inflection, spoke directly into Balthasar's mind. Its pace was measured, scrutinizing. "But... the vessel itself is too frail. Long-term energy saturation is insufficient. Mortal flesh cannot withstand the impact of an 'Angel's' descent. It would shatter instantly."
A flicker of disappointment crossed Balthasar's face, quickly suppressed. He bowed his head lower. "This humble servant failed to consider this adequately."
"It is of no consequence," the Keeper's voice remained flat. "Such a soul is wasteful to destroy. Transfer it to the Division. After systematic instruction and physical conditioning, it may be cultivated as a new acolyte candidate. You require more of these... malleable souls."
"As you decree." Balthasar assented. Then, shifting the subject with practiced ease, he injected a note of carefully measured puzzlement. "Honored One, one further matter. Recently, our soldiers have suffered abnormally high casualties purging the old remnants—wiped out almost instantly. Yet the local villagers rarely face attacks of similar intensity. This lowly servant is perplexed by the discrepancy."
The Keeper's form wavered slightly, as if the question had sparked a faint interest.
"Energy... attraction," the Keeper explained tersely. "The soldiers' bodies flow with refined devotional power. To the remnants, who subsist by consuming energy, they are blazing torches. The villagers... their energy is thin. Like stones."
Understanding dawned on Balthasar, but a new question followed. "Should we then increase efforts to strengthen the villagers'—"
"Unnecessary." The Keeper cut him off, his tone carrying a chill that ended discussion. "The disturbances in this sector exceed projections. I will dispatch two newly bonded 'Angels' to manage the issue. They will resolve the trouble."
Finally, the Keeper delivered his final, merciless instruction. "If local resistance persists... or intensifies. You are authorized to enact the 'Purification Protocol.' No further warning is required. The primary Golden conversion cycle is now preliminarily stable. Energy harvest... must not be disrupted. Minor attrition... is within acceptable parameters."
The communication halo vanished instantly. The disc dropped into Balthasar's waiting hand. He stood motionless, his face expressionless. The Keeper's words had confirmed some of his suspicions, granted him greater authority and more powerful support, but that final phrase—'minor attrition is within acceptable parameters'—sent a sliver of cold tracing its way down his spine. In the eyes of the Clerical Division, the lives of his soldiers, the very existence of the village, were all just calculable "attrition."
He glanced toward the contemplation cell. Erika, this unexpected prize, while unfit to be a 'Vessel,' would still count as a credit as an 'acolyte candidate.'
Now, he looked forward more keenly to the arrival of the two 'Angels.' What methods would they employ to 'resolve' the troubles of this land?
He turned and descended the altar, beginning to draft his report to the Division regarding the transfer of the 'acolyte candidate' and the preparations for receiving the 'Angels.'
The village night, seemingly calm, churned with undercurrents. A greater storm was approaching.
The Keeper's command rippled through the village with unsettling speed, thickening the air with a pressure that made it hard to breathe. Priest Balthasar, with careful calculation, began seeding whispers of the coming "Angel"—a divine event of overwhelming grace, sent to scour the land clean of evil once and for all. It was a message meant to crush any lingering thoughts of dissent.
Erika was kept under lock and key, awaiting transfer to the Clerical Division. He moved through the days in a daze, mechanically eating, mechanically obeying. Only in the deep quiet of night, when the badge on his chest flared with an abnormally violent pulse, would a flicker of something—a confusion, a pain he could no longer comprehend—briefly surface in his hollow eyes before being swallowed again by numbness.
A few days later, at dusk, two streaks of light appeared on the horizon. They were not the soft, holy radiance of stories, but a sharp, aggressive gold—like two miniature suns falling to earth. They landed with precision just beyond the village, in the blighted area bordering the Ravine of Broken Bones and the old Feather-Gone Grounds.
There was no grand ceremony, no spectacle. The two Angels did not even enter the village. After a brief, private audience with Balthasar whose contents none would ever know, they set to work.
Their methods were chillingly efficient, operating on a level of power beyond common understanding.
One Angel rose into the air, hovering, and pressed her palms toward the earth. An invisible wave pulsed out from her. Deep within the ravine, the Scavenger-Bone Sparrows—even those whose eyes had briefly flared crimson under the Old Pedant's influence—stilled instantly. The soul-fire in their sockets winked out. A series of dry clatters echoed as they collapsed into piles of truly lifeless, disconnected bone.
The second Angel walked to the entrance of the old burial grounds. She did not destroy the pale structure. Instead, she raised a single finger. The light that burst from its tip was not one of purification, but of overwriting. The ancient energy flows within, remnants of the Deathbird system, were violently twisted, severed, and replaced by purer, more domineering threads of golden power. The entire site was wiped clean, its purpose erased. It could no longer sustain any of its former inhabitants.
The entire process was unnervingly silent. No epic battle, no thunderous roars. Just absolute, unquestioning erasure.
Their task complete, the two Angels turned to light and shot back into the sky without a backward glance, as if they had merely taken out the trash.
From his altar, Balthasar watched the now-"pacified" zone, a mix of awe and relief in his heart. The power sent by the Keepers was indeed formidable.
But in the village, the silent judgment bred not relieved joy, but a deeper, bone-chilling cold. The people had just witnessed a force they could not comprehend, let alone resist. Any thought of rebellion now seemed ludicrous, pathetic.
Old Sackman sank to his knees by his home and buried his chipped offering bowl in the deepest hole he could dig out back. The herb-seller incinerated every last trace of Moanweed root she had hidden. In the span of a few silent moments, the plans of the Old Pedant and Leaf seemed to lie in utter ruins.
Miles away, in a hidden hollow surrounded by blighted trees, Leaf looked up sharply. His face, still etched with pain from his wound, drained of all color.
"The connection... it's gone," he rasped, turning to the Old Pedant, Marco, who was etching something into a flat stone. "The burial grounds... I can't feel them anymore!"
Marco's hand stilled, the stylus scratching a deep, unintended gouge. He looked up, his wrinkled face not showing surprise, but a heavy, expected weariness.
"Faster than I anticipated," he murmured, his gaze seeming to pierce the forest canopy, chasing the vanished golden lights. "And more thorough. Angels... It seems we are not just fighting the local enforcers anymore."
He set the stylus down, looking at the complex, ancient array of runes, still unfinished, on the stone before him.
"The plan must change, Leaf," the old man's voice was low but firm. "A direct fight is suicide now. We must find other... fissures in the system. Fissures left by the original light. Or..." he paused, "we must find the one who can truly hear its call."
He took a slow breath, as if convincing himself as much as giving a new order.
"Before they take Erika away... we have to try one more time. He is our only link left inside. Our last hope."
In the distance, on a road leading away from the village, a wagon carrying Erika, escorted by the Auric Guard, rolled toward its unknown destination. A deeper shadow had fallen over the long-suffering land. For now, this chapter of the story closes on silent judgment, the ashes of a failed plan, and the faint, stubborn spark of a hope not yet fully extinguished.