The Patriarch Xylos, his usually placid face now a mask of purpling fury, thrust the Dawn Lance forward. Its blinding tip flared, pushing back the gloom that clung even to Lysoria's shadows. “Mortals!” his voice boomed, rattling the very stones of the grand portal. “You have defiled sacred ground, spilled sacred ichor, and, worst of all, withheld the decreed tributes! Silver spoons! Fine wines! Where are they?”
Morvan blinked slowly, a dust mote drifting lazily past his eye. He was already tired, and this entire ascent had been an irritating amount of effort. He’d hoped the pinnacle would offer a slightly less drafty spot for a nap. Now, he was faced with an immortal tantrum over cutlery. “Spoons?” he mumbled, patting a hand against his torn tunic. Nothing but the gritty texture of ancient lint.
“Do not mock us!” shrieked Clamorosa, the reedy patron of whispers, her voice now a grating screech that scraped against the eardrums. She brandished a miniature, glowing scythe that hummed with destructive intent. “Your continued existence is a slight against the very fabric of Nocen! Offer your tribute, or be erased!”
Morvan sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of profound weariness. He fished deeper into his pocket, his fingers brushing against something small, hard, and slightly sticky. He pulled it out: a lint-covered, suspiciously green breath mint that had probably been there since his last life. It looked vaguely like a petrified slug. He flicked it between his thumb and forefinger.
“This?” he asked, holding it up for inspection. He’d meant to just drop it, but the combined pressure of scowling deities and Lysoria’s intense gaze made him feel like he was being judged for his choice of confectionary.
Xylos, already incandescent with rage, saw the casual offering as the ultimate insult. His face turned a shade of crimson usually reserved for fresh arterial wounds. “Insolent worm! You dare offer us… filth?” With a roar, he brought the Dawn Lance down, not at Morvan, but at the mint itself, as if to obliterate the very concept of disrespect. A torrent of incandescent energy surged from the spear's tip.
Morvan, annoyed by the sudden surge of light that made his eyes water, merely flicked the mint. It wasn’t a hard throw, more of a lazy lob. But as it left his fingertips, it accelerated, shedding its linty coating in a green blur. It struck the glowing tip of the Dawn Lance with a sound like a thunderclap that echoed through the entire ossuary. A deafening *CRACK* ripped through the air.
The Dawn Lance, the alleged pinnacle of celestial destructive power, shattered. It didn’t just break; it detonated, exploding into a shower of incandescent shards that rained down upon the horrified idols. Xylos staggered back, his hands smoking, staring slack-jawed as the power of his weapon turned against him. The force of the mint’s impact was so immense that a small, perfect crater now marred the dark basalt lintel where it had hit.
The Weeping Idols, momentarily stunned by the destruction of their most potent weapon by what appeared to be a piece of ancient candy, stood frozen. This was Davorin's hidden master stirring. The gravedigger's form shimmered, his gaze turning to twin abysses, and tendrils of inky darkness erupted from his feet, lashing out like whips. The shadowy entity surged forward, a silent, furious blur.
“The false dawn’s puppets,” a chilling voice, both Davorin’s and something far older, rumbled from his throat. “Blind, arrogant fools. You pave the way for your own consumption.”
The shadow tendrils lashed out, striking Zophiel across the chest, sending the portly idol sprawling. Clamorosa shrieked, her reedy scythe deflecting a blow that would have cleaved her in two. But as the slumbering terror pressed its attack, the air around them began to thrum. The faint, bilious amber glow that permeated Nocen suddenly intensified, bleeding through the cracks in the basalt frame, seeping through the very stone of the cathedral. It was as if the Sun itself was pressing against the barrier, a malevolent, suffocating presence.
The dark tendrils hissed, recoiling from the blinding glare. They writhed, wavering, their inky blackness thinning at the edges. The entity screamed, a sound of agony and fury, as the parasitic Sun’s light began to burn through its very essence, overpowering its form.
Yurik, who had been cowering behind a fallen gargoyle statue, his gaze darting between the faltering idols and the flailing shade, saw his chance. His face, usually a picture of cunning greed, was now distorted by naked terror. “Wait! Wait!” he shrieked, scrambling out from his hiding spot, tripping over his overflowing relic cart. “Holy Idols! Don’t let this… this vagrant fool you! He’s just a man! A very tired, powerful man! I can tell you all his secrets! Just… just give me a spot in the Golden Fields! A nice, quiet spot near the river, away from the screaming!” He pointed a trembling finger at Morvan. “He hates sunlight! And he hates paying taxes! He used to throw away perfectly good spoons!”
Lysoria, who had been watching the shade's fight with a conflicted expression, an inkling of concern warring with her jealousy, snapped. Her gaze, cold and sharp, fixed on Yurik. “You,” she snarled, her voice a low hiss that froze the breath in his throat. “You dare bargain with their empty promises? You dare betray *him*?”
Before Yurik could utter another pathetic squeak, Lysoria moved. She was a wraith, a blur of motion. Her shadows, impervious to the parasitic Sun’s light that weakened Davorin's possessing entity, erupted from her back, sharp as volcanic glass blades. They struck with brutal precision. Xylos, still reeling from the loss of his lance, didn’t even have time to scream as a tendril pierced his throat. Clamorosa’s reedy shriek was cut short as another shadow wrapped around her neck, twisting with sickening force. Zophiel, attempting to waddle away, found himself impaled through the back, his glowing fluids staining the polished black floor a rancid bile green.
Lysoria stood amidst the dissolving forms of the Weeping Idols, her expression one of utter, cold disgust. She spared them no glance as they faded into wisps of sulfurous vapor. Her eyes, burning with a fierce, possessive loyalty, turned back to Morvan, then shifted toward Yurik, who was now prostrate on the ground, whimpering like a beaten dog.
“Please, please, my Dread Sovereign!” Yurik wailed, pressing his forehead to the cold stone floor. “I spoke in haste! A moment of weakness! The Sun… it maddens the mind! I offer full penitence! A lifetime of service! A 50% discount on all… all your previous garbage! Think of the relics! Half price! An unprecedented offer!” He risked a peek at Morvan, who looked more bored than anything else.
Morvan, barely registering Yurik’s pathetic groveling, merely stretched. The shattered remains of the Dawn Lance and the disappearing pantheon were just background noise. He really just wanted to see what was behind the damn door. “Can we just… open the door now?” he mumbled, nudging the massive dark arch with his foot. It felt solid, unyielding.
As if in answer, a low, guttural groan reverberated from within the stone. Slowly, with an agonizing shriek of tortured metal and grinding stone, the colossal black doors began to creak inwards. Lysoria drew back, her brow knotting with sudden apprehension. The possessing shadow, still straining against the oppressive sunlight, let out a choked sound of utter dread.
Beyond the threshold, a vast, circular chamber spread out, bathed in the blinding, jaundiced glare that permeated Nocen. At its very center, dominating the space, hung an impossibly massive bell, larger than any building Morvan had ever seen. But it was not a bell of bronze or iron. Its surface was a glistening, pulsating expanse of mottled, fleshy red and ochre. And at its very center, where the clapper should have been, a single, titanic eye, veined with curdled green and gold, slowly, deliberately, blinked.