The Grand Cathedral was less a bastion of faith and more a colossal stone monument to draftiness. Gray ash, fine as powdered grief, sifted through every crack in the towering stained-glass windows, dusting the ornate carvings and the hushed, robed figures beneath. Iker Zabal, a college student who’d somehow traded lecture halls for cosmic power, shivered. Not from dread, but from the frost seeping through his scuffed sneakers. “Nerea, are you warm enough?” Iker’s voice, usually a low growl, softened to a murmur as he glanced down at his sister. Ten-year-old Nerea, perched on a ridiculously oversized, uncomfortable pew, had wrapped herself tighter in the thick, ash-stained shawl he’d conjured for her. Beside her, Bihotz, the cat-sized apocalyptic dragon, snored softly, curled into a tight, scaly ball. “It’s really cold, Iker. And that man keeps coughing,” Nerea whispered, tugging his sleeve and pointing toward the dais where High Priest Gorka, a figure of imposing stature and even more imposing arrogance, was mid-sermon. Gorka, clad in robes of crimson and obsidian, his face a mask of self-importance, punctuated his booming pronouncements with wet, rattling coughs that echoed through the cavernous space. His voice, hoarse but unyielding, swelled with dramatic flair. “And thus, the prophecy is fulfilled! The Anointed One has arrived! The scripture spoke of a harbinger from beyond the veil, a weapon of untold power, summoned to our dying realm!” His gaze, filled with a disturbing mix of reverence and predatory calculation, swept over Iker. “A being to command, to wield, to bend to the will of Ohalza, and specifically, to the Holy Church of the Azure Flame!” Iker merely raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. He watched a particularly large plume of Gorka’s phlegm-riddled breath visibly hang in the air before dissipating. The man sounded like a dying forge. “Nerea, cover your mouth,” Iker instructed, pulling his own scarf higher. “He’s going to get us all sick.” Gorka, momentarily flustered by the casual disregard, cleared his throat with a sound like grinding gravel. “The Divine Will has brought forth this… vessel! This potent instrument of salvation! And I, High Priest Gorka, chosen of the Azure Flame, shall guide its tremendous, raw power!” He extended a hand, palm up, towards Iker, a gesture that was clearly meant to convey authority and expectation. Iker ignored the hand. He was more concerned with the persistent hacking. The Ash Plague, he’d learned, was a magical illness, incurable, slowly rotting this entire fractured world from within. Gorka’s persistent, wet coughs were a prime example. The thought of Nerea catching it, even with his protective presence, sent a low thrum of unease through him. He reached into the spatial pocket where he kept his mundane comforts. His fingers brushed past a half-eaten bag of potato chips, a worn copy of ‘Calculus for Dummies,’ and finally, a smooth, plastic flask. “Here,” Iker said, his voice flat, cutting through Gorka’s pompous monologue. With a flick of his wrist, the small, bright blue plastic flask soared across the vast hall, spinning end over end. It landed with a soft *thud* directly in Gorka’s outstretched, expectant palm. The High Priest blinked, his majestic pose faltering, the medicine an absurdly bright anachronism against his crimson robes. “What… is this trinket?” Gorka rumbled, squinting at the synthetic plastic with a mix of suspicion and disdain. It was a generic brand of cold and flu syrup, emblazoned with a garish yellow sunburst and the words ‘Nightingale’s Night Nectar’ in cheerful block print. Before Iker could explain, a blinding, emerald light erupted from the container. It wasn’t a faint glow, but an impossible radiance that flooded the nave, washing out the dreary ash-light from outside. The age-worn granite seemed to hum, the very air vibrating with pure, untamed energy. Gorka cried out, dropping the vessel, but it hovered in the air, a miniature sun of vibrant, healing energy. The emerald light pulsed, then surged outward in a silent, all-encompassing wave. As the light receded, a gasp rippled through the congregation. High Priest Gorka stood frozen, his mouth agape. His persistent, rattling cough was gone. The dark, sickly pallor that had marked his skin was replaced by a healthy flush. The chronic wheezing that had plagued him for decades, a symptom of the incurable Ash Plague, vanished. Across the hall, gasps and cries erupted. Old men, whose lungs had been slowly calcifying, suddenly breathed deeply, their chests expanding with forgotten ease. Children with ash-colored skin found color returning to their cheeks. Weeping, coughing, and wheezing sounds were replaced by astonished silence, then by choked sobs of utter, disbelieving awe. “My… my breath…” Gorka whispered, clutching his chest, tears streaming down his face. He looked at his hands, no longer mottled with ash-dark veins, then at the floating bottle, which now emitted only a soft, comforting luminescence. He scrambled to snatch it, cradling it like an imperial relic, staring with hollow reverence. Iker, meanwhile, merely frowned. “Took you long enough. It’s a decongestant. Works wonders for a chesty cough.” He pulled his scarf down, feeling a tiny bit less annoyed. Nerea giggled, pointing at Gorka. “He’s holding it like it’s a baby!” Gorka, still trembling, looked from the syrup to Iker, a frantic shift in his gaze. This ‘weapon’ was… unpredictable. Too powerful to simply be wielded. It needed to be *contained*. He raised his free hand, chanting a low, guttural phrase in the archaic church tongue. A shimmering, invisible dome snapped into place around Iker and Nerea, humming with protective, imprisoning power. The bulwark of the First Light, Gorka called it in his muttered liturgy, supposedly unyielding and unbreakable. “I apologize, Anointed One,” Gorka said, his voice taut, set with desperate ambition. “But your… presence… must be secured for the good of Ohalza. Until we understand its… nature.” Iker didn’t even register the enclosure. He was still focused on the relentless draft. He walked over to one of the massive, unyielding stained-glass windows, its iron frame thick with centuries of grime and corrosion. “This place is freezing. Can’t they open a window?” He pressed his palm against the pane, pushing. The glass, infused with the impenetrable warding of the seal, vibrated, resisting. Iker huffed, annoyed. “Stuck.” He pushed harder. A low, groaning sound filled the cathedral, a sound that seemed to come from the very foundations of the building. The translucent ward, a construct of pure divine energy, shimmered violently, then *cracked*. A spiderweb of fractures spread across the invisible dome, accompanied by a shriek of tortured magic. With a final, exasperated shove from Iker, the wall *shattered* into countless glittering motes of light, fading into nothingness. The massive window, freed of its old restraints, swung inward with a tortured groan, letting in a gust of cold, ash-laden air. “There,” Iker grumbled, rubbing his palm. “Much better. Still drafty though.” Gorka stared, his face drained of blood, the cold remedy clutched to his chest like a lifeline. His imperial ward, the one church histories claimed had repelled dark sorceries and demon incursions, had been… pushed open. Like a sticky door. He opened his mouth to stammer, but before a sound could escape, the entire Grand Cathedral vibrated. A low, guttural growl, impossibly deep, ripped through the air, shaking the very stones. It wasn’t a roar of anger, but one of primordial gravity, vast and heavy. The eternal weeping sky, a canvas of endless gray, suddenly darkened further. A colossal, winged shadow, vast enough to blot out the ash-choked sun, descended over the valley, its form hinting at scales and primal fury, its cry heralding the Calamity itself.

The Drafty Cathedral