The square behind them dissolved into muffled echoes as the cathedral gates closed. Torchlight painted the stone in shifting gold and shadow, the air thick with incense that drifted down from the high windows. Thal walked at the rear of their line, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the polished steps.
At the front, Elira strode with measured grace, her hand resting lightly on the shaft of her glaive. The weapon's blade caught the torchlight as they climbed, gleaming like a sliver of moonlight. It was less a show of threat than of readiness, a reminder that she was never without the weapon that had become almost an extension of her will.
Eric walked beside her, his eyes never leaving the massive figure behind them. Between them towered High Canon Voren, his staff's sigils pulsing faintly with a light that seemed both holy and accusing.
The guards flanked them in pairs, boots striking stone in precise rhythm. They were not escort so much as watchmen, their formation a cage with no bars. Even in celebration, Lions Gate knew how to remind its guests of power.
Nyra's gaze swept the cathedral's towering arches but her shoulders held taut, as though she could feel the weight of unseen eyes above. Valen, by contrast, carried himself as if he belonged already, chin raised, basking in every glance that slid his way. Luken kept to silence, his jaw set, though his knuckles whitened where his hand brushed the haft of his axe.
Thal said nothing, yet the air around him seemed to strain. Voren's earlier words lingered in the silence like smoke: the stranger in the loom. Each step carried him deeper into a place that did not want him yet could not ignore him.
At the threshold of the hall, the guards drew in tighter, the sound of their armor grinding like teeth. Eric's hand twitched near his blade but Elira stilled him with a glance, the glaive shifting almost imperceptibly at her side.
Voren lifted his staff, and the cathedral doors opened with a resonant groan, spilling light across the marble floor. "Enter," the High Canon intoned, his voice ringing against the stone. "The Three will have their measure."
The cathedral doors parted with a groan like stone dragged over stone, revealing the vast hall within. Candles and braziers lit the chamber in a thousand points of wavering flame, their glow climbing the marble pillars that rose high into the vaulted ceiling. The space was immense, its echoes swallowing the sound of boots and breath alike and yet, for all its grandeur, the doorway itself was narrow built for kings and saints, not giants.
As the group passed through, Thal came last. His steps slowed, the top of the arch looming just above his crown. Without hesitation, he bent his neck, lowering his head beneath the frame to pass inside. The simple motion drew a ripple through the gathered acolytes and veiled priests lining the hall.
Valen, striding ahead, glanced back just in time to catch it. A chuckle escaped him, sharp and ill-timed. The sound echoed faintly against the marble. Nyra's crimson eyes snapped to him, her hand flashing out to cuff his side hard enough to make him stumble. He grunted, biting back another laugh under her glare, though the smirk at the edge of his lips lingered.
The hall's assembly was vast and varied. Knights of the Three stood in formation along the pillars, armored forms gleaming in polished steel, their hands tightening against spear-shafts and sword hilts at the sight of Thal's towering figure. Their gazes were not hostile, not entirely many stared in wonder, in awe, as though they looked upon a living relic from half-forgotten scripture.
But the others the priests in their crimson-trimmed robes, the nuns veiled in black, the rows of young acolytes clutching prayer-beads looked with eyes less forgiving. Murmurs whispered through their ranks like the hiss of snakes, words lost beneath the vaulted roof but sharp in their intent. Their stares carried disdain, unease, the unvoiced accusation that something so vast, so other, had no place in the house of their god.
Thal did not falter. Straightening once inside, he lifted his head, and the shifting firelight caught his eyes. Gold. Burning, unyielding, they pierced through shadow and fabric alike. The murmurs faltered. One by one, the stares broke.
Knights who had been standing tall lowered their chins. Acolytes gripped their beads tighter, looking anywhere but at him. Even the veiled priests flinched, as though that gaze might strip away the thin veneer of their sanctity. Fear, sharp and unbidden, rippled across the hall, scattering as quickly as it had risen but not forgotten.
Elira's voice, steady as her glaive, cut through the uneasy silence. "Walk." She did not look back at Thal but the command carried with it the certainty of someone unwilling to let whispers sway the path. Eric followed stiffly, his hand resting near his weapon's hilt, his eyes darting between the crowd and the giant at their rear. High Canon Voren moved with deliberate calm, his staff clicking against the marble floor with each step but his lips had curved again into that faint, knowing smile, as if the reaction of the hall had only confirmed what he already believed.
They advanced deeper, the hall narrowing into a long path between the gathered faithful. The sound of their footfalls was swallowed by the silence that now pressed down like a weight. Thal's shadow stretched far across the floor, splitting the light of the braziers as though his very presence divided the room.
Nyra walked with her head high but her hand never strayed far from her bowstring. Luken's teeth ground audibly, his every step taut with restrained violence, though he gave no voice to it. Valen, chastened by Nyra's strike, kept his smirk buried, though his eyes flicked again toward Thal, as if marveling at how easily the man had turned fear into silence without a single word.
And Thal, for his part, moved with the same steady rhythm as always, unbothered by awe or disdain alike. His golden eyes dimmed to their usual calm gleam, though not a soul in that hall had forgotten the searing weight of them.
When they reached the dais at the far end, Voren turned, lifting his staff. The symbols at its head glowed faintly, their interlocked forms casting warped shadows against the stone. His voice carried with perfect resonance, clear enough to reach every corner of the cathedral.
"Behold," he said, eyes sliding from the Triad to the giant behind them. "The Three's chosen, and The unmeasured piece."
The hall breathed again but no one dared speak.
Thal's jaw flexed as the cathedral's silence stretched on. He said nothing, though every part of him recoiled at the incense that burned faintly in the air, at the prayers stitched into the very stones of the hall. The Church had always reeked of piety turned weapon, and though his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, itching for words, he kept them locked behind silence.
They walked on, the guards forming a quiet ring around them. Torches guttered in the draft as they approached a staircase of broad, polished steps that rose toward an upper chamber. The group climbed in silence, boots striking against marble in rhythm. Thal's steps were heavier than the others', each one sounding like the drumbeat of some older, harsher age intruding upon this sanctified space.
At the top, a vast circular chamber opened before them. Its walls were carved with reliefs of the Three heroes immortalized in stone, their hands stretched outward as if blessing those gathered below. A massive round table of black oak dominated the centre, surrounded by high-backed chairs marked with the sigils of the Church. The table's surface gleamed with careful polish, reflecting the glow of chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling.
High Canon Voren strode forward, his staff clicking against the stone with each measured step. He turned with a flourish of his crimson-lined robes, gesturing broadly toward the seats. "Please," he intoned, voice resonant, "be seated. The matters before us are weighty, and the people will need answers their faith can endure."
Elira inclined her head and moved to one of the offered chairs. Eric followed, his armor creaking as he lowered himself stiffly. Valen dropped into his seat without hesitation, sprawling with the casual arrogance of someone who had not yet learned that composure could be as sharp as any blade. Nyra slid into place beside him, her crimson eyes cutting toward him with a silent warning that made him shift upright. Luken lingered a heartbeat longer before he too sat, his jaw tight, his hands clenched against his knees.
Thal remained standing.
He had moved to one of the empty places but the chair there was laughably small compared to his bulk, its frame little more than carved wood dwarfed by the breadth of his shoulders. He stared at it for a long moment, the tension at the corner of his mouth flickering like a shadow. Slowly, he straightened again, towering over the table, his presence eclipsing the flickering lamplight.
High Canon Voren turned toward him, that same faint smile curling at his lips. He pressed one hand to his chest as if struck by regret. "Ah," he said, his voice a silken murmur, "forgive me. It seems our hospitality was not… crafted with one such as you in mind. The seats were built for men, not giants."
The words dripped with feigned apology, the cadence rehearsed, polished, empty. His eyes gleamed, not with sorrow but with a subtle satisfaction, as though he delighted in reminding the hall that Thal did not belong here, that he was a stranger forced to stand while others sat.
Thal's golden eyes narrowed. For a breath, the chamber seemed to tighten, the silence bristling but he said nothing. He only folded his arms across his chest and remained where he stood, looming behind the others like a wall of flesh and iron. His shadow spilled across the polished table, fracturing the light that danced upon its surface.
Elira glanced toward him, her lips pressing thin but she offered no words. Eric's eyes flicked between Thal and Voren, suspicion sharpening at the priest's tone though he, too, kept silent. Valen shifted in his seat, his usual bravado tempered beneath the weight of the moment. Nyra's gaze lingered on Thal longer than the rest, her expression caught somewhere between worry and defiance on his behalf.
High Canon Voren only continued to smile, as though the discomfort suited him. He lifted his staff slightly, letting the symbols upon it catch the light, and with a voice smooth as oil said, "Then let us begin."
The table filled with the soft scrape of chairs and the rustle of robes but Thal did not move. He stood behind them all, silent and unmoving, the reminder of his presence cutting through the Canon's courtesy like a blade pressed against silk.
The scrape of chairs settled into silence, the only sound the steady hiss of torches burning along the chamber's high walls. High Canon Voren folded his hands atop the table, his rings glinting, his staff resting against the polished wood. The veiled priests along the edges of the room bowed their heads, waiting, their presence more like a watching wall than attendants.
It was Eric who broke the silence. His voice was iron, measured, yet strained by the memory of what they had seen.
"The Archon of Rot," he said flatly, his eyes sweeping across the table. "That is what we faced in the south. A figure cloaked in corruption itself and with it… a beast. Something foul, stitched from the marrow of nightmares."
The words hung like a weight, drawing a ripple of unease from the priests. Voren inclined his head, expression patient, as though encouraging the confession to deepen.
Eric's gaze hardened, not faltering. "It was no common spawn. I have seen the abominations Kruul breed from their foul rites but this thing… it was worse. Old. Wrong. Its form shifted like rot given flesh. It moved with hunger, not instinct."
Across the table, Nyra's shoulders stiffened. Valen's hands pressed into his knees, his fingers flexing as if remembering the sensation of striking at such a monster's hide. Luken's jaw was a pale line beneath the strain of silence. They said nothing but their eyes flicked briefly, too quickly to be remarked upon toward Thal.
Thal remained unmoving, his arms still folded across his chest. His gaze never drifted from the table, golden eyes gleaming faintly in the torchlight, calm to the point of unsettling. He had fought such a beast before had stood in the ruined bones of Kel with these same young warriors as they tore down one of its kin. He knew what Eric spoke of, knew it intimately but he offered nothing. Not even the smallest nod. His silence was a wall.
Eric leaned forward. "Whatever it was, it is no lone horror. This was a weapon, loosed with purpose and the Kruul flock to it." His fist clenched atop the table. "They gather in greater numbers than ever. Tribes that once warred with each other now march together beneath banners we do not yet know."
High Canon Voren lifted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing. "And this beast," he said slowly, each word deliberate, "you would say it was not Kruul-born?"
"No," Eric answered without hesitation. "It was something else. Something older. Not Kruul. Not wholly."
Voren sat back, the faintest curve of his lips suggesting satisfaction. He spread his hands as if to address not only the table but the silent priests around them. "Then it is as we have always said. Humanity's sin given form. Our pride made flesh. The rot festering in the marrow of our history, rising again to remind us of our debt."
The words rang with practiced weight, rolling through the chamber like a sermon. Some of the veiled priests bowed their heads deeper, as though in reverence. The knights of the Three shifted in their places along the wall, their armor clinking softly.
For the first time, Thal moved.
It was nothing more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a fraction of a smile, gone as quickly as it came but Nyra saw it. She always watched him when others didn't, always searching his silence for cracks. Her crimson eyes narrowed, catching the faint curl of amusement before he sealed it away. He did not laugh, did not even exhale but the ghost of the expression betrayed something. Not faith, not joy. Recognition.
Her gaze lingered, suspicion knotting in her chest but she said nothing.
Eric's voice carried on, iron cutting through the priest's sanctimony. "Whatever name you give it, the truth is the same: the Kruul rally to its presence. They grow bolder with each march, more unified than they have been in generations. Even now, their numbers swell beyond what our scouts can count." He looked toward Elira, his tone grave. "If we do not act, Lions Gate itself will feel their tread."
Elira's face was hard to read. She leaned upon her glaive where it rested against her shoulder, her eyes fixed on the table's polished surface. When she finally spoke, her words were calm, deliberate. "Our people need more than warnings, Eric. They need proof. They cheer now but fear grows quickly when faith alone is all that shields them."
Voren's head turned toward her, and his smile deepened faintly. "Proof?" he echoed, voice laced with silk. "Look no further than what you have already delivered. The Archon of Rot. The beast. The corruption that crawls where Kruul tread. The people do not need to see they need to be told and we will tell them."
Luken bristled, shifting in his chair as though he might speak but Nyra touched his arm beneath the table, a silent warning. His jaw tightened but he swallowed the words, his gaze burning holes into the wood grain.
Eric was less restrained. "Words alone will not hold a city," he said, his tone sharp. "And faith is not steel. When the Kruul come, when that… thing comes again, it will not be sermons that meet them at the gate."
The chamber stirred. Acolytes shifted, priests murmured, the knights' grips tightened on their swords.
Thal's golden eyes flicked toward Eric, studying him for a heartbeat but again, he said nothing.
High Canon Voren did not flinch. He raised one hand, palm outward, as though calming a crowd of restless children. His voice softened, carrying the weight of years spent leading sermons. "You misunderstand me, Commander. Faith is not the absence of steel. It is what binds the steel to the hand that wields it. Without faith, armies falter. With it, they endure. The people will believe, and in that belief they will stand."
Eric's scowl deepened but Elira placed a hand lightly on his arm once more, her subtle restraint drawing his words back before they became a blade. She spoke instead, her tone careful. "What matters is that the threat is real. Whether beast, sin, or Kruul-born, we must prepare."
Voren inclined his head, as though indulging her. "And we will but preparation without conviction is hollow. That is why we sit here, why the Three's chosen must answer. Not merely to plan but to embody the truth the people must live by." His eyes flicked briefly, deliberately toward Thal's towering form, still unmoving behind them. "And perhaps to decide what place is left for those who fall outside the weave of god's loom."
The implication was subtle but sharp enough to draw the attention of every person at the table. A tension spread, quiet but suffocating.
Thal did not move. He did not even blink. The silence that radiated from him was heavier than words, pressing down until even the priests shifted uneasily.
Only Nyra noticed his jaw flex, the briefest grind of teeth behind the mask of calm. She had seen the smile earlier, the fleeting crack of truth when the Church named the beast humanity's sin and now, seeing him endure Voren's veiled slight, she felt the weight of secrets piling like stones between them.
But Thal said nothing.
The chamber breathed in silence again, waiting for the next move, for the thread of words to be pulled tighter until something snapped.
High Canon Voren folded his hands, voice low and resonant, smooth as poured oil. "And this will not be the last." His gaze moved across the table, deliberately pausing on each of them in turn. "The Archon of Rot was but one shadow. More will rise. More of humanity's sins will crawl from the dark, wearing flesh, until the debt of our forefathers is answered. This is the truth of the Three."
The words stirred unease. Priests bowed their heads deeper, some even whispering prayers. The knights at the wall shifted like a wave of iron, their faces unreadable.
Eric's jaw clenched. He leaned forward, palms pressed flat against the table, his voice cutting across the chamber. "Enough."
The word cracked like a blade striking stone, silencing the murmurs. Eric's eyes locked on Voren, hard and unflinching. "You sit here and call it sin, debt, judgment but those are words. Twists. What we faced was no allegory. It was flesh. It was teeth and rot and it would have torn through us if not for the Nephilim."
The air thickened. Eyes swung toward Thal some in awe, others in distaste, the priests' lips tightening as if the name itself were sour.
Eric did not waver. He jabbed a finger against the table. "Say what you want about faith. I care for facts and the fact is this: without him, the Hero's Triad would not be sitting here. Elira, Valen, Luken, Nyra they would be bones in the mire. I would be bones in the mire. You would have nothing to preach over but a grave."
The force of his words left the chamber quivering. For a moment, even Voren seemed caught between silence and reply, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, the High Canon smiled.
It was not warmth it never was but it carried the shape of concession. He bowed his head slightly, though the motion felt more like performance than sincerity. "Then let us give thanks," he said smoothly, his voice carrying too easily across the room. "Not only to the Three, whose weave holds every thread of fate but also to the hand that struck when the moment demanded. To Thal."
His eyes lingered on the Nephilim as he spoke the name, the faintest curve of challenge beneath the courtesy. It was a twist, a clever turn: he had turned Eric's blunt fact into a sermon's refrain, shaping even gratitude into doctrine.
Every gaze turned to Thal now. The silence stretched, a living thing, pressing like a weight on the massive figure who had so far remained a shadow at the table's edge.
Thal finally unfolded his arms. His golden eyes rose, calm and unblinking, meeting Voren's with a steadiness that drained the smile from the High Canon's lips. When he spoke, his voice was low, resonant, carrying none of Voren's smoothness only iron, unyielding.
"No thanks are needed."
The words cut, stripped of all ceremony, all pretense. He pushed back from the table, rising to his full height, his head nearly brushing the cathedral's high arch. The wooden chair groaned beneath the scrape, too small to contain him even before he stood.
His gaze swept the table, then the priests, then the knights along the walls. His tone was steady, final. "It was inevitable."
A hush fell like a dropped veil. The words echoed, carrying a weight none could quite name, neither boast nor humility, only certainty as though he spoke less of a battle and more of a truth carved into the bones of the world.
Without another glance, he turned. The cathedral door loomed behind him, still just short enough to force him to lower his head as he passed. The golden light of the torches caught his horns, then his broad shoulders, before he vanished into the corridor beyond.
The silence he left behind was suffocating.
Voren's lips twitched faintly, his composure reassembling like a mask. "There walks a piece uncounted," he murmured, mostly to himself. "A thread outside the loom."
Eric exhaled sharply through his nose, disgust plain in the sound. He looked to Elira, his jaw tight. "At least one of us sees truth for what it is. I'll not sit through another sermon while the Kruul sharpen their blades."
Elira said nothing, only adjusted her glaive against her shoulder, her expression unreadable. Nyra's crimson eyes lingered on the doors long after Thal was gone, the ghost of his half-smile and the weight of his words etched too deep to ignore.
Valen leaned back, restless, his mouth twitching as if to speak but no words coming. Luken's fists clenched at his sides, silent fury eating at him.
High Canon Voren merely folded his hands once more, serene in his silence, as though Thal's departure had been no disruption at all but part of the script he had already written.
The torches hissed, and the chamber waited, heavy with the knowledge that something had shifted a line crossed, a truth spoken, a silence broken.
The cathedral doors closed heavy behind Thal, their echo rolling through the hall like a drumbeat.
For a long moment, none spoke. The priests shifted uneasily, their prayers drying on their lips, and even the knights seemed carved to stillness.
Eric's jaw flexed, his hand curling into a fist against the table. Under his breath, sharp and bitter, he let the words slip. "Damn the church."
It was low but the meaning cut clear. Not hatred of gods, not even of Voren just the raw edge of a soldier who knew politics had slithered where only truth should have stood. His eyes burned toward the High Canon, a glint of regret there, not for the Nephilim's words but for ever letting the clergy sink their claws into what should have been a reckoning of fact.
Voren did not answer. He didn't need to. His faint smile lingered like incense smoke, cloying and inescapable.