I. The Spectacle of Lÿkøn
Amazing and wonderful the Saints can be. They cleanse the world of sin. And beautiful they make us.
The people of Lÿkøn sing. Their voices rise like incense into the white skies, swelling through the marbled courtyards and gilded balconies of the capital. Children sway on their heels. Mothers clutch their sons proudly. Fathers bow their heads in reverence.
To them, the Saints are not warriors. They are salvation. And salvation must be seen.
II. The Divine Assembly
High upon the Grand Terrace stands King Ædräven Solmýr — robed in soft ivory cloth, simple in cut, modest in adornment. No gold crowns his brow. No jewels stain his hands. His humility is deliberate. His smile creases his cheeks so deeply his eyes nearly vanish.
"My beloved Lÿkįans," he says warmly, his voice carrying without effort across the region. "Thank you for your worship and praise. I will see to it that our Lord blesses you abundantly."
The crowd erupts. They believe him. They always do.
Behind him stand the Higher Order Saints:
• Blįzzārd, the Ice Saint, silent and sharp-eyed. Frost curls lazily around his clawed fingertips.
• Vespïræ Nyx, encased in radiant holy armour faintly glowing with her pink essence, her hammer resting against her shoulder.
• Zërø, arms folded, gauntlets dormant but humming faintly as if anger itself waits just beneath his skin.
• Kÿį — ancient, composed, hands folded over the pommel of his sheathed blade, watching everything.
And then there is Seraphine. The strongest of them all. The Saint of Purification.
She stands closest to the King, wings folded neatly behind her back like draped silk. Tÿkøle rests upright beside her — the spear taller than she is, its surface etched with sacred script that shifts faintly if one stares too long. Within Tÿkøle reside the souls of every King before Ædräven.
So they are told. So she has always believed.
III. The Descent
A scream splits the sky. Not of fear. Of anticipation.
The air ruptures as a demon crashes down into the central square — bone-thin, ash-skinned, malformed wings snapping uselessly behind it. It howls. The crowd cheers. Children climb onto fountains for a better view.
"Do I strike?" Seraphine murmurs quietly.
Ædräven does not answer immediately.
The demon scrambles forward, swiping weakly at the nearest civilians. The people do not run. They swarm it instead — kicking, striking, jeering. It is ritual humiliation before divine cleansing. Another demon tears through the sky like a falling star, slamming into cobblestone and cracking it. Still the King does not give the command.
Seraphine's fingers tighten on Tÿkøle. Something feels… wrong.
The first demon — smaller than most — does not attack wildly. It shields its head. It trembles. She hears something. Not with her ears. A pulse. A strain. As if something inside it is screaming against its own flesh.
"Your Majesty," Vespïræ says lightly from behind them, though her tone carries iron. "The crowd is sufficient."
IV. The Harvest of Light
The King's smile widens just slightly. More people flood into the square. The chant grows louder. Saints. Saints. Saints.
Seraphine feels it then. Energy. Not from the demons. From the people. The worship. It gathers like invisible mist and coils upward — toward the Terrace. Toward Tÿkøle. The spear hums faintly.
Ædräven finally nods. "Go."
Her wings unfurl in a cascade of white feathers. The crowd gasps in reverent awe as she rises above them, hovering in divine stillness. Sunlight crowns her silhouette. Below, the demons snarl — but the smaller one looks up. Directly at her.
Their eyes meet. And for one suspended heartbeat — she sees fear. Not malice. Not hunger. Fear. And beneath it… recognition.
Her breath catches. Her grip falters. Only slightly.
But Kÿį notices. From the Terrace, his ancient gaze narrows. Zërø tilts his head. Vespïræ's armor flares brighter.
"Seraphine." The King's voice echoes gently in her mind. A private command. "Do not hesitate."
V. Purification
The worship surges stronger. The spear drinks it. And something else. Something pulled not just from the crowd—but from the demons themselves.
She thrusts Tÿkøle forward. The aperture erupts.
Tÿkøle shifts in her grasp, blades along its shaft uncurling like mechanical petals. Sacred geometry rearranges, forming a radiant aperture at its core. Light begins to build. Blinding. Holy. The crowd drops to their knees.
"Purify them!" they cry in unison.
The smaller demon opens its mouth. Not to roar. To speak. She cannot hear the word. But she sees it. Please.
A column of light descends like judgment incarnate. The larger demon disintegrates instantly — ash scattering into the wind. The smaller one remains for half a breath longer. Long enough for her to see—its body resisting. Not attacking. Resisting. The light tears through it. Its scream is not rage. It is anguish.
And then—silence. Both demons collapse into drifting grey dust.
VI. The Burden of Grace
The square explodes into celebration. Flowers are thrown. Children weep with joy. "Radiant!" someone shouts. "She is unmatched!"
Seraphine descends slowly, wings folding once more behind her. Her expression remains composed. Perfect. Untouchable. But her hands tremble faintly around Tÿkøle. The spear is warm. Warmer than usual. As if fed well.
Ædräven places a gentle hand upon her shoulder. "Well done, my brightest Saint." His smile never falters. But his grip lingers just a moment too long.
Above them, unseen by the rejoicing crowd, faint lines of golden energy stream from the kneeling citizens into the foundation of the Grand Cathedral. Into something buried deep beneath it.
Seraphine glances once more at the patch of stone where the smaller demon fell. For a fleeting second—she swears she sees something glow beneath the ash. Not corruption. Not evil. A sigil. Then it fades.
"Prepare for council," Vespïræ says coolly as she passes by. Blįzzārd gives Seraphine a brief, unreadable look. Zërø exhales sharply and turns away, already bored. Kÿį remains still. Watching her.
As the chants continue to rise. Saints. Saints. Saints.
Seraphine lifts Tÿkøle once more. And for the first time in her life—the weapon feels heavy.