The village of Gaina, nestled within the crook of the Roka Pass, appeared surprisingly vibrant. Smoke curled lazily from stone hearths, the scent of roasted root vegetables thick in the crisp air. Children’s laughter drifted from a sun-dappled square where a game involving wooden hoops was in full swing. This prosperity was a stark contrast to the creeping rot that Eneko knew festered just beyond the settlement’s carefully maintained spiritual wards. The Order’s deception, he realized, ran deeper than he had imagined.
He moved with a hunter's quiet grace, his eyes scanning for any familiar faces. He recognized the pattern of the local weavers' guild on several cloaks, a distinct geometric design of interlocking triangles. It was only a moment before he spotted her, standing by a communal water pump, her back to him. Her hair, the same dark shade as Lide’s, was pulled back in a simple braid, revealing the elegant line of her neck. Amaia.
Her movements were precise as she filled a heavy wooden bucket, her shoulders squared, a picture of quiet diligence. The knife, he thought, the one Ibai described, was an artisan's tool. He approached, his footsteps deliberately soft on the packed earth.
“Amaia,” he said, his voice low, not a challenge, but a statement of presence.
She flinched, the bucket tilting precariously before she steadied it. Her head snapped around, and her eyes, wide and startled, met his. Recognition flickered, then a shadow of fear. She knew who he was, a ritualist of the Lumin Cordis. The color drained from her face, leaving her pale as a winter moon.
“Ritualist Goiko,” she stammered, curtsying quickly, her gaze darting around the square as if seeking an escape route. “What brings a man of the Order to Gaina?”
Eneko took a step closer, ensuring their conversation remained private. The children’s shouts faded into the background, replaced by the thumping rhythm of his own rising apprehension. “I’ve come from Aizkorri. From the weaver’s dwelling.”
Her composure crumbled. The bucket slipped from her grasp, spilling water onto the ground, creating a dark, spreading stain. “No,” she breathed, a sound barely audible, full of raw, unvarnished dread. Her hands clenched at her sides.
“Ibai Ezkerro sends a message,” Eneko continued, his tone deliberately neutral, stripping it of accusation. “He says Lide remembers you. She remembers your love for her, your shared laughter, the dyeing of yarn.”
Amaia’s eyes welled, glistening, but no tears fell. Her mouth trembled, pressing into a thin, white line. “Lide,” she whispered, the name a fragile, broken plea. “She… she remembers?”
“And her regret,” Eneko pressed gently, recalling Ibai’s earnest words, “is not for her own passing, but for leaving you to face the decay, and its consequences, alone.”
The words struck Amaia like a physical blow. A choked sob escaped her, and she covered her face with trembling hands, her shoulders shaking violently. “Oh, Lide,” she wept, the sound ragged, torn from the depths of her soul. “My sweet sister. I never wanted… I only wanted to save us.”
Eneko waited, letting her grief wash over her. He saw not a villain, but a young woman consumed by a terrible burden. When her sobs subsided, she lowered her hands, her face streaked with tears, but her gaze, though red-rimmed, held a desperate clarity.
“The sickness,” she began, her voice hoarse, “it came like a creeping shadow. First the harvest failed, then the livestock sickened. The spiritual energy, it felt wrong, curdled. The township elders, they went to the Order, begging for help. They sent no one.” Her voice hardened with a bitter edge. “They sent no one until it was almost too late. Until a traveling elder, one who introduced himself as Elder Korba, arrived. He spoke of ancient protections, of a deep connection between the land and its people.”
Amaia’s gaze drifted past Eneko, to the thriving fields beyond the stone ramparts, now bursting with life. “He said the land was dying because its core had been severed, that it needed a re-binding. A willing heart, he said, tied to the soil, would heal it. He spoke of sacrifice, of a great spiritual anchor. He knew how much I loved Lide. How much I loved our home.” Her voice cracked, thick with the memory of that terrible choice. “He gave me the texts, the instructions for the ritual, and the knife. He said it was the only way to save Gaina. To save everyone.”
She looked at Eneko, her eyes pleading for understanding. “I believed him. I swear it, Brother Goiko. I thought I was doing what was right. I thought Lide would become a guardian, a protector, bound to the very heart of the land. I never knew it meant… this. Never knew she would be trapped.”
Eneko felt a cold fury settle in his gut, a slow, burning rage. The Order didn’t just fail to contain the corruption; they actively manipulated these desperate folk, turning their ancient beliefs against them. They orchestrated the death of an innocent weaver, twisting her love into a weapon, all to cover their own incompetence and an affliction they couldn’t control. Elder Korba. The name resonated with a chilling familiarity, a senior ritualist known for his reclusive studies into archaic rites.
“Where are these texts?” Eneko asked, his voice tight with controlled anger.
Amaia nodded towards a small, sturdy wooden chest in the corner of the square, where municipal records were kept. She hurried over, her movements still stiff with lingering grief, and fumbled with a small iron key she wore around her neck. She pulled out a heavy, leather-bound grimoire, its pages brittle with age, and handed it to Eneko. Its cover was etched with symbols that mirrored the cipher on Ibai’s parchment.
“He left it, saying it contained other ways to ‘fortify’ the bond, should the blight ever return,” Amaia said, her voice barely a murmur. Her shoulders slumped. “Please, Brother Goiko. You’re a ritualist. You understand these things. Ibai… Ibai said you might help. Please, help me fix my mistake. Help Lide.” Her voice was raw, a desperate plea for absolution. “What else did he tell me that was a lie?”
Eneko stared at the grimoire resting heavy in his hands, its dark magic radiating a subtle, corrupt warmth. The Order’s treachery was a gaping maw, wider and more insidious than he had ever conceived. He looked at Amaia’s tear-streaked face, then at the grimoire, then back towards the thriving valley, a prosperity built on a lie and a sister’s sorrow. He knew what he had to do, but the path ahead was shrouded in shadows, and the truth, once fully uncovered, would surely burn the Lumin Cordis to its foundations. What dark pacts had the Order truly made to save face?