The Red Mother's skeletal hands folded over one another, the crimson veil shifting slightly as she continued her address to the assembled Templars.

Her voice carried the weight of centuries— probably. No one knew how old the damn fossil had been alive for, but there were rumors that she had been alive for over two hundred years.

The cathedral's vast ceiling seemed to absorb her words, the massive painting of the crimson-armored warrior looming over them all like a silent crown.

At the table, two figures leaned close to one another.

Master Wolfield's walking stick tapped softly against the stone floor as he adjusted his position, the heavy glasses on his nose catching the dim candlelight. Commander Strut's weathered face turned toward the small, ancient man, his voice barely a whisper.

"How true are her words?"

Master Wolfield's lips curled into a faint smile, the kind that suggested he found the situation itself amusing,

"Truth and lies," he said quietly, his voice like the rustle of old parchment, "are inherently deceptive concepts, Commander."

Commander Strut's jaw tightened,

"Truths are true," he said flatly. "Lies are lies. They are distinct because they are what the are." His expression was as though he found what the old bat said to be ludicrous.

Mostly because it was...

A soft chuckle escaped the old man, barely audible over the Red Mother's now increasingly uncomfortable continuing speech. "You have not changed a bit in all these years, Strut. How long has it been? Thirty-five years?"

The Commander's frown deepened, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean by that?"

Master Wolfield simply smiled, his thin shoulders rising and falling in a small shrug. The gesture was maddeningly cryptic, and Strut felt the familiar irritation that always came with speaking to the old scholar. The man had a talent for saying much while revealing nothing and saying nothing just to reveal rather groundbreaking knowledge.

The old man was an enigma...

Around them, most of the others gathered at the table remained motionless, their attention fixed on the Red Mother.

Master Wolfield leaned closer again, his walking stick shifting against the floor,

"The migrations and spontaneous evolution of Abominations in the wild have been getting out of hand lately, or so I've heard."

Strut nodded,

"So it has been. Especially with the mighty Grey above us. This disaster might turn out to be one of the greatest of the century.

Master Wolfield shrugged and leaned in to whisper even lower,

"I heard... the unprecedented aggression and coordination we have observed in recent months." He paused, his milky eyes distant behind those thick lenses. "All of it stems from this new strain of corruption. The one the Church has decided to call the Defilement."

"The Defilement, huh... That doesn't sound pleasant at all."

"Liedenstorm," Master Wolfield continued, his voice taking on a contemplative quality, "is surrounded by Malady's Garden. But beyond that, Golgotha, the Field of Skulls, also exists— two of the most corrupted territories in the Empire." He tapped his stick twice against the floor, a soft, rhythmic sound.

"It may prove quite difficult to defend."

The Commander's gauntleted hands clenched into round fists,

"These walls have held strong for generations. They are just as old as the dirt we walk upon."

"Indeed." Master Wolfield's smile widened slightly. "And generations have a way of ending, do they not?"

Before Strut could respond, the Red Mother's voice rose to a conclusion, her final words echoing through the cathedral.

"Strengthen your blood, Warriors. The time for you to spill it for the sake of our Empire is swift approaching."

The assembled rose one by one, the armor of the Templars creating a chorus of metallic whispers. Captain Orpheus turned sharply on his heel and strode toward the doors, his subordinates following. The others filed out in orderly procession, their faces grim and resolved.

Master Wolfield tapped his walking stick against the floor and shuffled toward the exit, his ancient frame moving with surprising steadiness despite his age. "Good evening, Commander," he said without looking back.

Strut remained seated, watching the old man disappear through the doorway. The cathedral grew quiet as the last of the Templars departed, leaving only the flickering candlelight and the oppressive weight of the painting overhead. The crimson-armored warrior stared down at him, the hundred or so eyes of the Demon's head not quite comforting.

The Commander's gaze drifted to the altar below the painting, to the words carved into the stone.

*Through change, strength. Through strength, salvation.*

He had spoken those words a thousand times. Ten thousand times, or maybe more. They were the foundation of the Crimson Crucible, the philosophy that allowed them to consume Abomination blood and turn it into power. The Seal of Blood, the Sin of Consumption. It was what separated them from ordinary Templars, what made them the Church's most formidable weapon against the tide of the ever encroaching damnation.

But for everything, exists a price to be paid.

Master Wolfield's words echoed in his mind.

"Generations have a way of ending."

The tide was rising.

Defilement was spreading.

The gods were awakening. The migrations would continue, and the Abominations would grow stronger, until eventually, the walls would not be enough.

Eventually, perhaps humanity would prevail just as it always hsd.

Or perhaps nothing would be enough this time...

Strut walked toward the doors, his boots echoing in the empty cathedral. The inscription on the altar seemed to follow him, the words burning in his mind.

He wondered, not for the first time, if salvation was even possible anymore.

***

The cells beneath the Red House were carved from bedrock, each one eight feet square with walls two feet thick. The air was damp and cold, smelling of mildew and old stone and the faint, acrid tang of fear.

Or maybe that was just sweat and piss...

Torches lined the corridor at irregular intervals, their flames casting shifting shadows that made the darkness seem alive.

Most of the cells were empty. The Red House did not keep many prisoners. Those suspected to be heretics were usually executed immediately, their bodies burned and their ashes turned into mulch, not even granted a proper sending off.

The unlucky ones were given to the Inquisition, where they would remain alive for days, sometimes weeks, until their broken bodies finally gave out.

Very few ever left these cells.

The dungeon was dark.

And it was quiet.

In one of them, in the furthest corner where the torchlight barely reached, something stirred.

A golden eye snapped open.

[End of Volume One: The Heretic].

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