Emanuel remained on his knees long after the chaos. The echoes of screams had faded, leaving only the soft drip of blood from the shattered podium. Each drop sounded like a clock.
He lifted his head. The sunlight streaming through the stained glass lost all its warmth, it seemed distant. Cold.
Emanuel's hands shook as he pressed them to the cold stone floor. The questions circled his mind like vultures. He remembered Father Elias' voice, all the quiet mornings, the soft prayers before dawn, the patience, the unwavering faith. And now… all gone.
And yet, something stirred beneath the hollow. A whisper, from the unknown part of soul, not of God but of possibility. Emanuel couldn't name it. It felt like a door cracked open.
He looked towards the cross, draped and adorned for the Mass. Disgust crawled from his bones. A God who could not save His own children did not deserve worship, it deserved fire. Something unseen tugged at the edges of his thought, a quiet nudge, guiding him toward questions he had never dared ask.
His mind flared, sharp and raw. 'Father… he would have told me what was right, what was wrong…'
He looked toward Father Elias's remains, remembering the event that took place in front of his.
He touched the cracked wood of the podium. Blood had seeped deep into its grain. He pressed his thumb into it.
It did not come off. Some things did not wash away.
Perhaps faith was not meant to protect.
Perhaps it was meant to endure.
Perhaps the world held things he had never imagined.
He rose unsteadily, letting his palms glide along the benches, feeling their splintered edges. Memories came un-announced, Father Elias laughing softly over a candlelit supper, correcting him gently when he mispronounced a hymn, the quiet reassurance in his eyes when Emanuel faltered in prayer.
He had always been sure of Elias' truth. But truth… what was truth when the world itself seemed to bend, when life could end in such incomprehensible violence?
Emanuel walked to the altar, looked towards the wood. Each crack, each splinter, felt like a mirror of himself, broken, uncertain. Yet… there was a strange beauty in it, too.
Life persisted. Light persisted. Something endured.
He knelt once more, this time in silence. He listened. Not for God. He listened for the possibility that the world was larger than he had imagined, darker alive. Something unseen was there, waiting for his arrival.
And yet… for now, he had somewhere to go, unknown even to him. His body ached, his mind spun.
Sleep, only sleep, beckoned. He allowed himself to rise, to leave the chapel, and to follow the quiet pull wherever it would lead, even if he did not yet know why.
***
Beautiful Day.
It was a beautiful day for Officer Smith. He woke up today with a spring in his step.
Eggs & Bacon. What a combination.
"Ah, I am full. I love her." he thought with a smile. Just the thought of Jenny made him beam. They'd been living together for three years now. He'd been meaning to propose for a while.
And tonight…tonight was the night.
Officer Smith sat back, savoring the last bite of his bacon. He was ready for the day. But then, the phone rang.
"Smith," he answered, wiping his mouth.
"Officer, this is Deputy Lawson. You need to come to Bloomberg. It's... it's the priest. Father Elias... he's dead."
Smith froze, his fork hanging in mid-air. "What do you mean, dead?"
"Suicide. He... he was giving a sermon, Smith.
Something about Lord's coming, some bible shit... it doesn't make sense."
The last bite caught in his throat as Lawson continued.
"He… he slammed his head into the podium. Once… twice… They say he didn't stop until… until it was too late. I gotta go. It's chaos here."
The line clicked, leaving an eerie silence behind. Smith stared at the phone, his hand still gripping it. Father Elias. A good man. Or so Smith had thought.
The air around him felt suddenly too heavy, too still. For a moment, the excitement of the proposal, the warm memory of Jenny's smile, seemed so far away.
He let out a breath, steadying himself.
Tonight was supposed to be about something else.
He grabbed his coat and headed out.
It's going to be a shitty day.
***
Minutes later, Smith stood at the entrance of the church, his eyes scanning the yellow tape, the flickering lights of squad cars cutting through the morning haze.
The quiet hum of radio chatter and the shuffle of boots on gravel filled the air.
He was used to the feeling of gravel, its uneven grip, the familiar creak of the Church door, but it never felt so foreign.
Bracing himself, he crossed the threshold.
"Disgusting" was an under-statement of what he saw, shattered benches, tattered curtains and the pungent miasma of crushed flesh.
Smith steeled his stomach. He had seen gore before.
Never like this.
Never so absolute.
Flesh is a fickle thing. He'd learned it the hard way. What innocents call horror.
Smith's eyes were dazed; the calm he usually carried as an officer had vanished.
Carnage.
He moved through the chaos as nurses lifted and carried the injured, some alive but clearly in a daze, others barely able to stand. Church staff did what they could, guiding and supporting them. But many faces were pale, hollowed, and broken.
He wasn't sure when he had reached Elias's shattered body. Somehow, he had just drifted to it.
He looked down at Elias. The head… it was split open, the brain exposed in a way no one should ever see. Blood pooled around him, dark and thick, soaking the floorboards. Smith felt a hollowness crawl up his chest.
He didn't want to touch it. Couldn't. His hands shook even at a distance.
How… how could someone do this to themselves? He wondered, though a part of him didn't even want the answer. The room smelled of iron and fear. The chaos around him, the groans, the murmurs, and the endless shuffle of feet, faded until all he could see was that broken body.
Faces of the injured flickered at the edges of his vision, but he didn't register them.
Then he saw it. A shape that shouldn't be here. A symbol, etched into the exposed brain.
3.
He blinked. Looked again. And again.
It was still there, seemingly calling for something. He stepped back, away from the cursed thing.
Heavy breaths. Sweat dripped down his forehead. His eyes lifted to the tinted windows, golden light spilling through. He saw the painting of Christ, ever gentle, ever loving. Its gaze rested on the chapel, but now… it seemed to see only what he couldn't. The 3.
It felt as if the Lord had turned away. Left His flock to the teeth of the abyss.
***
Far from the shattered chapel, in the heart of the capital, the largest cathedral rose against the sky. Beneath it, in a quiet corner, in its darkest room, an old man sat.
A brush held in his hand. Its metallic head rested against the leathery canvas.
He dipped the brush into the shallow vessel, the liquid slowly thickening as it gathered, drip by drip.
Unbothered.
Somber.
Almost peaceful.
Peace that was halted when the door creaked open.
The brush froze, fickle light spilling into the room as it opened. The ink on the canvas faded, steaming and drifting out through the doorway.
The old man sighed, keeping his gaze on the faded image. "You do know that you will suffer pain far greater than death for this, don't you?"
"It takes effort for me to write this visage on mortal flesh." He set the brush back in the vessel, his hands white as porcelain.
He looked up: an inverted cross, suspended by chains. Upon it, bound by ropes, hung a corpse. Its head hung down, a gash splitting from the crown and stopping at the neck, right above the open vessel. Blood dripping steadily, turning to sin, a paint for the canvas.
"Virgin's blood. Such a waste." He sounded almost remorseful.
The man in the doorway bowed. "Your grace, I am but your humble servant." He paused, then added, "It has begun, your grace."
The old man's gaze didn't falter. "I see." Yet his voice turned softer, "Indeed, such a waste."
He turned to look towards the man in the door.
Facing his ancient, steady eyes, the young man sank to one knee, head bowed.
"Go Agnes, Summon The Woe, Call that Wrench, Call the Oath-Keeper."
The voice echoed throughout the dark corners of silence.
Agnes stiffened.
"My lord…" His voice faltered. "That… Liar?"
The word left his mouth like something sour.
The old man's eyes lifted.
Not anger, just a vast ocean in them.
Agnes felt it press against his ribs. He lowered his gaze at once. The old man rose. Unhurried.
His robes whispered against the stone. He walked past Agnes.
Stopped. A pale hand rested lightly on his shoulder. "Do not make me kill you, Agnes."
Soft. A truth. Almost weary.
"You know how I despise the necessity of it." Blood split is need for him not a necessity. It was beneath him, like soiling his hand in dirt.
Agnes swallowed.
"Yes, Your Grace." The hand withdrew immediately, as though even the suggestion of violence had already dirtied the air.
"Summon him."