Erika stepped out from the church's newly reinforced door, the metal fittings cold against his shoulder. The lingering chill of the holy symbol on his fingertips mingled with the memory of Priest Balthasar's measured blessings, leaving him feeling strangely hollow. He needed something tangible to clear his senses.
The village well stood in the fading light, its shadow stretching across the packed earth. Farmers gathered there, washing away the day's labor with splashing water and rough cloth. Their tired movements and low murmurs formed the evening's familiar rhythm.
Then he noticed Old Sackman. Unlike the others scrubbing dirt from their limbs, the old man first filled a chipped wooden bowl with water. His clouded eyes turned toward the distant Feather-Gone Grounds before he carried the bowl to a dry patch of earth and poured the water out in a steady stream. The ground drank it silently. Only then did he return to clean his tools. A nearby villager glanced his way, then quickly looked elsewhere.
Erika took his place at the well, drawing water for an elderly woman. His attention drifted to young Leaf, who was carefully measuring out glittering powder from a small pouch - the church's Consecrated Gold-dust. After a moment's hesitation, Leaf stirred the powder into his bucket, the water taking on a metallic sheen. He scrubbed his face with determined vigor.
"Does it help?" Erika asked casually.
Leaf looked up, water dripping from his chin. "The priest says it purifies," he said, his voice mixing pride with uncertainty. "Makes one cleaner... closer to the light." He seemed to be seeking confirmation.
Erika simply nodded, hefting his own bucket of clear water.
The marketplace breathed its evening smells of baked bread and earth, now threaded with the sweet scent of church incense. At the herb stall, the tight-lipped woman had arranged her wares on rough cloth embroidered with a golden circle - a new acquisition serving practical purposes.
As Erika examined the herbs, old Grigor approached coughing. The woman's hand darted beneath the stall, emerging with Moanweed roots that passed into the woodcutter's calloused palm in a silent exchange.
"Just wormwood," Erika said, placing coins on the embroidered cloth.
Nearby, a vendor's cry cut through the air: "Church-blessed vials! Protection from evil spirits!" A young couple in machine-loomed clothes examined the crude clay bottles with interest.
As Erika stood to leave, he saw the herb woman flip her cloth over, hiding the golden emblem.
Beneath the great oak at village's edge, the elders sat in unusual silence. The Old Pedant drew symbols in the dirt with a twig, then smoothed them away, his gaze fixed on the distant new altar.
"New fire sweeps the plain," he murmured. "Does it consider the eggs in old nests?"
A dozing woman mumbled in response: "A path walked long enough knows its stones. A new road cares not for what lies beneath."
Another elder tucked a polished bird skull back into his robes with a heavy sigh.
Erika wanted to speak, but found no words. The Pedant met his gaze with clouded eyes that offered no answers before shuffling away into the dusk.
From the altar site came the measured tread of the Auric Guard - Clank. Clank. Clank. - a sound that mapped rather than protected.
Erika pushed open his creaking door. Inside, darkness. Outside, the church's golden light cast barred shadows through the cracks in his wall.
The wooden door's groan shut out the outside noise, but the unmoving golden bars of light seeping through the wall cracks felt more suffocating to Erika than any sound. They sliced through the interior darkness, as if carving apart the village's past and future. The Old Pedant's murmur—"new fire sweeps the plain"—echoed in his ears again.
He needed something real to push back against this intangible pressure. He walked to the cold hearth, crouched, and let his fingers trace meaningless patterns in the loose soil of the corner. There was nothing there but dirt. His home held no secrets—no Moanweed, no other "dregs of the old times."
Then—
Bang. Bang. BANG.
Heavy, urgent pounding, ringing with the distinctive echo of metal armor, hammered against the door like a war drum, brutally shredding the night's quiet. The wooden plank groaned in protest.
"Open up! In the name of the Golden Light! Routine inspection!" The voice from outside was cold, leaving no room for refusal.
Erika's heart lurched, but his face instantly settled into the mask of vague confusion and fear common among the villagers. He drew a steadying breath, pressing down all emotion, and walked over to draw the bolt.
The door was nearly shoved off its hinges. Two soldiers of the Auric Guard, clad head to toe in gold-edged plate armor, filled the doorway. Their gazes, sharp as hawks' from within their helms, pushed him aside without ceremony and strode into the small room.
"We have a report," the lead soldier's voice was flat, like he was reading a notice, "that items defiling the Light may be hidden here." He didn't even look at Erika, his eyes sweeping over every inch of the hut like a broom.
The other soldier was already moving. He used his scabbard to roughly overturn a pile of straw in the corner, kicked over the rickety table, and checked every possible crevice. A clay pot shattered. The few worn garments Erika owned were shaken out and trampled under boots. Their movements were practiced, efficient, dripping with utter contempt for private space.
Erika stood by the door, watching silently. His fists clenched at his sides, then he forced them open. He said nothing, just watched the intruders turn his meager home inside out. The loose soil in the hearth corner was kicked aside by a boot, revealing... nothing but packed earth beneath.
"Report. Nothing found," the soldier addressed his leader.
The leader's helmed gaze fixed on Erika again, the scrutiny intensifying. "You're very calm," he said, his voice icy.
Just as the tension thickened further, a peaceful, almost concerned voice sounded from the doorway. "What is happening here? What is this disturbance?"
Priest Balthasar appeared on the threshold, his spotless white robes a stark contrast to the chaos within. He surveyed the wrecked room, then Erika and the two soldiers, his brow furrowing with precisely measured authority and puzzlement.
The guard captain immediately bowed. "Your Grace, we received a report—"
"I am aware." Balthasar raised a hand gently, cutting him off, his tone carrying a hint of reproach. "But in executing your duties, remember the mercy and order of the Golden Light. We should not unduly disturb the faithful flock." He turned to Erika, his face softening into a warm, apologetic smile. "Erika, my son, this must have given you a fright. It is all to ensure the village's purity. I trust you understand."
Erika lowered his head, offering only silence.
Balthasar's gaze swept the room once more before settling on Erika's face, as if admiring a piece of art. "I have always had an eye on you, Erika," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "You are steady. Resilient. Like this ancient land itself. You carry the good qualities of the old times, and I believe you also possess absolute loyalty to the new era. The village is changing. We need young people like you—as examples, as... bridges between the past and the future."
He was offering an olive branch, his tone laden with temptation and expectation.
Erika looked up, meeting the Priest's gaze. His voice was calm but clear. "Your Grace, I am just a simple shepherd. I don't understand these great matters. I only wish to live my life in peace."
The smile on Balthasar's face didn't flicker, as if he'd expected this very answer. He showed no displeasure, only sighed softly, a trace of regret in it. "No matter. True loyalty is tempered by time. The god's patience is limitless."
As he spoke, he drew an object from within his robes. It was a small badge made of dull yellow metal, shaped like three interlocking rings—the Mark. He held it out to Erika.
"Take it, my son," Balthasar's tone brooked no refusal. "It is a talisman of the church, bearing the protection of the Golden Father. Wear it. The Light will guide you, and it will... protect you. Perhaps one day, when you feel the true call of the Light, you will reconsider."
Erika looked at the badge, gleaming with a cold light in the dimness. He hesitated, then finally reached out and took it. The metal was shockingly cold and heavy in his palm.
"My thanks, Your Grace," he said, his voice low.
Balthasar nodded, satisfied, gave him one last appeasing look, and turned away, the two soldiers following as if the violent search had never happened.
Erika closed the door and leaned his back against the cold wood. A dead silence filled the room, broken only by the wrecked furniture speaking of the recent violence. He opened his hand. The Auric Mark badge lay in his palm. Its cold touch felt alive, clinging to his skin.
Would it truly offer protection? Or... was it itself a more refined, more invisible shackle?
Outside, the church's golden light remained, nailing the barred shadows fast to his floor.
The door shut out the priest's retreating figure, but it couldn't block the clear voices from outside. Erika, his back pressed against the wood, held his breath.
Priest Balthasar's voice, now stripped of all pretense, cut through the cold night air—sharp, clear, and laced with a chilling finality that was a world away from his performance inside the hut.
"May the Golden Father's will be done on earth, as it is in His realm." He seemed to be conducting a brief benediction, aimed at the two soldiers.
"We are the instruments of that will, Your Grace," the guard captain replied, his voice respectful and firm.
"Good." Balthasar's tone smoothed back to its usual cadence, but the words were anything but reassuring. "The 'cleansing' must be thorough. This village's spiritual foundations are more... antiquated than anticipated. The Clerical Division will be stationed here shortly to systematically 'correct' the stubbornness of local thought. Prayer chambers, confessionals, daily matins and vespers—all will be established. We must reshape their understanding of the Light from the soul outward."
Erika's heart sank. The Clerical Division... He'd heard vague rumors. It was the branch of the Auric Creed responsible for 'doctrinal purification,' their methods far more... invasive than building altars and handing out gold-dust.
Balthasar continued, his voice perfectly audible through the door crack. "As for you, soldiers. Your task will be more defined. The Clergy handles internal matters of the soul. You will guard against external threats."
He paused, his voice dropping slightly, yet gaining intensity.
"Guard against the resurgence of the Deathbirds."
"Reliable intelligence suggests our suppression of the old Feather-Gone Grounds may agitate what sleeps there—or, more accurately, the 'remnants' still bound to the old systems. They may grow restless, instinct driving them to reclaim control over the 'relics.' Any anomalous skeletal activity, any attempt to approach or maintain the old grounds, is to be treated as a defiance of the Golden Order. Lethal force is authorized."
"By the God's decree!" the two soldiers chorused, their armor clanking.
Footsteps sounded again, this time truly receding into the distance.
Outside, silence returned.
But Erika, leaning against the door, felt colder than he had during the entire search.
The Clerical Division was coming to 'correct' thought... That meant the Old Pedant's muttering, Sackman's water offering, even his own silent refusal moments ago—all would become sins requiring 'purification.'
And 'guard against the resurgence of the Deathbirds'... That single, casually spoken phrase was a death sentence. It equated anyone who still held any sentiment for, or reliance on, the old ways with those skeletal monsters. It marked them as targets to be eliminated.
Slowly, he raised his hand and looked at the cold Auric Mark badge in his palm. Balthasar hadn't given this to him as protection. It was a brand. A final 'opportunity.' To wear it was to submit, perhaps to suffer less in the coming 'correction.' To refuse was to place himself alongside the 'remnants.'
He clenched the badge tightly in his fist, its metal edges digging sharply into his skin.
Outside the window, the church's golden light seemed to grow harsher. It no longer looked like bars, but like a burning fire, ready to consume anything that failed to conform to the new 'order.'
The village's twilight was over. A longer, colder night was just beginning. And he knew, now, that he could no longer remain just a silent witness. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Leaf's act of destroying the bird-track symbols under the old oak spread through the village like a sudden wind. Some praised his "bravery," seeing it as a clean break with the past. More, however, felt a quiet unease, as if he hadn't just scuffed some marks in the dirt, but had shattered a delicate, long-held balance.
That night, a wailing came from the direction of Echo Canyon. It wasn't the cry of a beast, nor the wind—it was a drawn-out, twisted shrieking, like the sound of countless bones grinding together, tearing the night's silence to shreds. Dogs in the village cowered and whined in their corners; livestock grew restless. Erika lay on his cold pallet, the phantom sensation of the Old Pedant's symbols traced on his palm seeming to echo the inhuman wailing, keeping him awake until dawn.
The next morning, a greater panic arrived.
Leaf's field, once thriving, was utterly ruined. It looked as if it had been plowed by some vast, unseen force. The soil was churned up, the green crops severed at the base and withered, their color leaching into an unnatural grey. And amidst the wreckage, several immense, unmistakable claw marks were gouged deep into the earth—their shape a perfect match for the symbols the Old Pedant had drawn.
Panic spread like a sickness. Villagers gathered at the edge of the field, pointing at the giant marks, their faces etched with terror.
"It's the Lord-Birds! They've come for vengeance!"
"Leaf only did it yesterday... and now this... It can't be a coincidence!"
"They were content in the burial grounds! Why come to the fields?"
As fear tightened its grip, the hunter pushed through the crowd, his face paler than the wilted plants. He held up a rabbit, its fur matted with blood yet showing no visible wound.
"Your Grace! Priest Balthasar!" His voice trembled as he lifted the carcass. "It's not just the fields! This morning, checking my traps by the wood's edge... I found spots like this! Just pools of blood. The game was gone. Not a trace! This has never happened before!"
His words landed like a stone in a still pond.
"My... my chicken coop had blood outside it this morning! Two hens are missing!"
"My cured meat, left in the yard... the jar's gone too, just a grease stain on the ground..."
Scattered reports rose from the crowd, piecing together a terrifying picture: the Deathbirds, creatures once known for quietly haunting the burial grounds and gathering anonymous bones in the wilds, had changed. Their range and their behavior had shifted into something alien and threatening.
Priest Balthasar arrived, flanked by his Auric Guard, his appearance perfectly timed. His face was grave as his gaze took in the ruined field, the frightened villagers, the bloodied rabbit, and the stains on the ground.
He raised a hand for silence, his voice solemn and resolute.
"Behold, my children! This is the backlash of the old shadows! This is the bitter harvest reaped from clinging to decay and rejecting the light!"
He pointed at the giant claw marks. "They fester with malice when shown disrespect! They bare their claws from ignorance! What happened to Leaf's family is a warning, and a revelation!"
He turned to the hunter and the others who had suffered losses. "They are no longer satisfied with the dead things of the wilderness. Now they covet the property of the living—nay, our very lives! What does this prove? It proves that the Light we champion is what they fear! It is what they seek to destroy!"
His voice rose, charged with a fervent, stirring power.
"They are afraid! Afraid of the Golden Light illuminating their dark corners! Afraid of us breaking free of their spiritual bondage! That is why they lash out so wildly, so recklessly!"
"This very frenzy confirms we are on the right path! We must not retreat! We must not yield to fear! We must unite more strongly, gather more devoutly around the Golden Father! Only a greater Light can scour away this clinging, ancient Darkness!"
His words worked upon the crowd. For some, the raw fear began to curdle into a deeper dependence on the Auric Creed and a stirred-up hatred for this "old shadow" enemy. They looked to Balthasar as their sole reliable beacon.
Erika stood at the crowd's edge, watching in silence. He listened to the Priest's fervent speech, watched the guided emotions of the villagers, and looked down at his own empty palm.
The symbols the Old Pedant had drawn. The hunter's account of blood without bodies. The Priest's swift verdict blaming "disrespect" and "old god reprisal." These fragments clashed in his mind.
The truth, it seemed, was starkly different from the story Balthasar was selling. The Deathbirds weren't striking back because they were "offended." This felt more like the desperate, primal struggle of a cornered creature, fighting for its very survival.
And the Priest was using that struggle to lash the entire village ever tighter to the Golden chariot.