The night had grown bitterly cold by the time Aster began his journey to the Church.
The temperature had been dropping steadily since sunset, and now, deep into the evening hours, the air felt sharp enough to cut. Each breath Aster took burned his lungs, the cold seeming to seep into his chest and freeze him from the inside out. His fingers were numb despite his gloves. His face, protected only by the metal helmet, felt like it was being slowly encased in ice.
*The blood flowing in my veins might freeze solid if this gets any worse,* Aster thought grimly, pulling his cloak tighter around himself.
But he couldn't stop. Couldn't turn back. He had only one destination in his mind now, one purpose driving him forward through the freezing darkness: the Church of the Evil Sage.
He'd left the capital proper behind an hour ago, following half-remembered directions from obscure texts he'd read years ago. The Church didn't advertise its location—that would defeat the purpose of being a secret organization dedicated to forbidden knowledge. But those who truly sought it could find clues. A reference in an old grimoire. A coded notation in a historical document. Whispered rumors among scholars who dabbled in dangerous studies.
All the clues had pointed to one location: deep in the Whispering Woods, several miles west of the capital.
The forest had earned its name honestly. Even now, in the dead cold of winter with most of the trees bare of leaves, Aster could hear the sounds that gave the woods their reputation. Not quite voices, but not quite wind either. Something in between—a constant susurrus of noise that almost formed words, almost became comprehensible, but never quite resolved into meaning.
The locals avoided this place, claiming it was haunted. They were probably right.
Aster had been walking for what felt like hours, his exhausted body protesting every step. He was already tired from the day's events—the escape from the valley, the crash landing in the abandoned house, the rush to the Thornwood mansion, the terror of that overwhelming presence. And now this long trek through freezing woods in the middle of the night.
He was running on pure determination, his muscles burning with fatigue, his mind growing foggy with exhaustion.
*Just a little further,* he told himself. *It has to be close now.*
The darkness between the trees was absolute. No moonlight penetrated the canopy above. Aster had to navigate by feel more than sight, stumbling over roots and fallen branches, occasionally catching himself on tree trunks to keep from falling.
And he could feel them. The spirits that dwelled in these woods.
They pressed against his awareness like curious fish bumping against glass, drawn by the demonic energy he now carried. Some felt merely curious. Others felt hungry. A few radiated pure malevolence, ancient and patient, waiting for him to make a mistake, to show weakness.
Under normal circumstances, traveling through the Whispering Woods at night would be suicide for an ordinary person. Even trained mages avoided it unless absolutely necessary.
But Aster was no longer ordinary. The demonic power flowing through him—the power he'd inherited when his father died, when he'd become the new Altar—gave him a certain immunity. The spirits recognized him as something other, something dangerous in his own right.
*I've destroyed an Eye of Evil before,* Aster reminded himself, drawing confidence from the memory. *With minimal effort, I shattered something that had terrorized the kingdom for centuries. These forest spirits should pose no real threat.*
He kept walking, his hand resting on the hilt of his Blood Sword, ready to draw it if any of the presences in the darkness decided to test him.
Then, through the trees ahead, he saw it.
Light. Not the warm orange glow of firelight or the cold blue of magical illumination, but something else. Something that seemed to shine from within itself, existing independent of any fuel source.
It was bright—blindingly so after the absolute darkness of the forest—yet somehow gentle, not harsh on his eyes. The light seemed to pulse slightly, like a heartbeat, and it carried a sense of eternity, of something that had existed since before time began and would continue long after time ended.
Aster squinted at it, trying to make out its source. Was it the Church? Some kind of ward or beacon to guide seekers?
Or was it something else entirely? Another entity from beyond, attracted by his presence? His exhausted mind playing tricks on him, creating hallucinations from fatigue and cold?
He couldn't tell. Didn't have the energy to properly analyze it. He just knew that the light was ahead, and ahead was where the Church should be, so he kept walking toward it.
As he drew closer, the light seemed to shift and change. Sometimes it appeared humanoid, a figure standing between the trees. Other times it was just pure radiance, formless and abstract. His tired mind couldn't hold onto a consistent perception of it.
*Probably just hallucinations,* Aster decided. *I'm exhausted. Cold. My body is at its limit. Of course I'm seeing things.*
He kept walking, ignoring the figure of light, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
The cold had become truly brutal now. His helmet—the dark metal that had seemed so comfortable earlier—was now frozen to his skin. When he tried to remove it, the metal refused to budge, as if it had become part of him.
Aster grasped it with both hands and pulled hard. The helmet came free with a tearing sensation, and he felt warmth on his face that was probably blood from where the frozen metal had adhered to his skin.
He looked at the helmet in his hands for a moment—the dark metal that had been his disguise, his protection, his new identity. Then, without really thinking about it, he dropped it on the ground beside the path.
*I won't need this anymore,* he thought with strange certainty. *Where I'm going, disguises won't matter. Either they'll accept me or they won't.*
He left the helmet behind and continued forward, his face now exposed to the brutal cold. It should have hurt worse without the protection, but somehow it didn't. His face was already so numb that the additional exposure made little difference.
Finally—finally—the trees began to thin. The oppressive darkness lifted slightly. And there, in a small clearing ahead, Aster saw his destination.
The Church of the Evil Sage.
It wasn't what he'd expected. No grand cathedral with soaring spires. No ornate temple decorated with mysterious symbols. Just a simple stone building, almost like a large house, with a peaked roof and narrow windows that glowed with warm lamplight from within.
The only indication that this was anything more than an ordinary dwelling was the symbol carved above the entrance: a perfect circle containing an eye—not the malevolent Eye of Evil, but something more neutral, more observant. The eye of knowledge rather than the eye of malice.
Aster's legs gave out as he reached the front gate. His knees hit the cold stone of the walkway with bruising force, but he barely felt it. His body had reached its absolute limit.
*This is going to be my home for a while,* he thought, staring up at the Church. *This is where I'll find the answers I need. Where I'll learn how to save Lily. How to stop the plague. How to undo everything that's gone wrong.*
*The Church of the Evil Sage.*
The front door opened, spilling warm light across the threshold. A figure emerged—an old man wearing robes of deep yellow, almost gold in the lamplight. The robes were simple in cut but rich in fabric, and they bore small symbols embroidered along the hems that Aster recognized as characters from ancient languages, each one representing a different type of knowledge or wisdom.
A disciple. A cult member. Someone who had dedicated their life to serving the Sage in exchange for access to its infinite knowledge.
The old man was indeed old—perhaps in his seventies or eighties, with a face carved by decades of intense study and exposure to truths that most people never encountered. His hair was pure white, pulled back in a simple tail. His eyes were sharp despite his age, but there was something about them that was unsettling. They seemed to look through things rather than at them, as if he was seeing layers of reality that others couldn't perceive.
He was human, certainly. But he felt like something more—or perhaps something less. As if pieces of his humanity had been traded away over the years in exchange for knowledge, leaving something wise but not entirely kind behind.
*He must have worshiped the Sage for a long time,* Aster thought as the old man approached. *Decades, maybe. Since before I was born. How much has he given up to gain what he knows?*
The old man extended his hand down to Aster, offering to help him up. His expression was neutral—neither welcoming nor hostile. Just... observing.
Aster took the offered hand without hesitation. The old man's grip was surprisingly strong for his age, and he pulled Aster to his feet with ease.
Together, they walked toward the Church entrance. Aster's legs were unsteady, his vision swimming with exhaustion, but he forced himself to keep moving. His mind was still foggy from the journey, thoughts moving sluggishly through the haze of cold and fatigue.
They crossed the threshold into warmth and light. The interior of the Church was simple but comfortable—wooden floors, plastered walls, furniture that was functional rather than decorative. Bookshelves lined every wall, packed with volumes of every size and age. A fire burned in a large hearth, casting dancing shadows across the room.
Several other figures were present—more disciples in yellow robes, working at various tasks. Reading. Writing. Discussing something in low voices. They glanced up as Aster entered, their faces showing mild curiosity but nothing more.
The old man led Aster to a chair near the fire and gestured for him to sit. Aster collapsed into it gratefully, his body nearly boneless with relief at finally being able to rest.