“The gods' blessings are an enigmatic power bestowed on the champions. Few can pretend to know the secrets of the godly arts, as it is not rare for a hero to fail to entirely discover the extent and nature of his blessing during his lifetime. Some have experimented, some have written down records for the next generations of heroes – but most of that knowledge has been lost throughout the ages, because the people destined to learn it sometimes do not appear for centuries.

-Private papers of a nameless churchman”

* * *

???

Memories of a tired hero. Of an era long forgotten. He pushed wet locks of hair away from his eyes and glanced to the side as he heard a yell. Some desperate survivor rushing toward him with frenzied eyes and a broken spear in his hands. The attacker tripped against one of the corpses laying around, or perhaps it was because of the slippery dirt. Regardless, he collapsed pitifully. The tired hero sighed and slit the madman's throat before he could get up.

Half a minute of gurgles later, all life was gone from the man's wild eyes. His executioner sighed yet again and grimaced as he tried to take a step forward. He had to support himself with the grip of his sword, the blade buried in the wet ground. His eyes wandered, passing on the endless landscape scattered with body parts, broken wooden machines, dented armours and dead horses. Packs of grim-looking soldiers were roaming these hills filled with death and misery, searching for injured friends to save, fallen comrades to mourn, weapons to loot, or survivors to finish off.

He resigned himself to do the same, and began to limp across the battlefield, hoping to find some of his subordinates and whatnot – if he had any left after that carnage. With the sun shining at his back, he could barely see his own blood running down from his leg. It was one of these hot, scorching suns that sometimes occurred after harsh rains. Soon the heat would turn this gruesome graveyard into a nightmare of smells.

The weight of his armour was getting more present, more inconvenient with each second passing, now that the adrenaline, the bloodlust, and the battle fever had left him. Left him with only the stench of murder that the rain had failed to wash, and soaked clothes that the sun hadn't dried yet. Soaked with blood or water, he had no idea, nor did he care. He heard a pained groan and glanced to the side, and saw a familiar figure.

“Still alive?” the tired hero asked the man in red who was kneeling not far from him, his long, pretty blonde hair dirtied with mud and the liquid life of the many enemies he had surely slain.

“You know me,” he said, and grunted once more as he observed the sad wreck of a dangling bone that was left of his hand. “I'm hard to kill.”

Hearing that, he let a bitter chuckle escape. The shattered wrist was slowly mending itself, and from some of the corpses around them, blood ran along the dirt and found its way to the man in red. The cracking sounds of the fingers reforming themselves were somewhat disgusting, and the tired hero looked away from his friend's hand. He had seen enough blood, flesh and bones for the day.

A bunch of riders wearing the heroes' banners approached. “Sir,” said one of the horsemen, a bloodied mace hanging from his belt, the reins of another mount in hand. “Your horse, my lord.”

It was his horse indeed, and his banner covering it, but something was amiss. “...You're not my squire,” he simply replied, without surprise.

The rider's expression darkened. “My lord, I'm sorry. Pandristel has fallen in battle.”

He didn't flinch nor frown. He already expected to hear something of the sort. The battle had been chaotic, their formations had been broken almost as soon as they clashed against the the enemy cavalry. During the crash, Pandristel, who had been at his side for years and years, had fallen from his horse, never to be seen again under the trampling hoofs.

“Do you wish to see his remains?”

He sighed, again. That was too many sighs, even for the aftermath of a battle. “No, bury him with the others,” he eventually said before getting on his mount. “I suppose you'll be my new shield-bearer from now on, what say you?”

The rider nodded. “As you wish, sir.”

“Have you seen Haelio?” the man in red asked.

The horsemen squinted their eyes at him, and it took them a few seconds to realize who they were staring at. “Ah... S-sir Degoxamaton, forgive me! I did not recognize you.” It wasn't surprising, the Blood's dirty appearance contrasted with the usual radiance and cleanliness he was known for. “H-here, take my horse if you wish.”

“No need,” he said as he shook his head. “Well, Haelio?” he insisted, and once more, the riders wore somber looks.

“...Reports from one of his knights say that his holiness the Warmth also has departed for the afterworld. Apologies, my lords.”

“I see,” Degoxamaton said in a solemn, but tired voice. “May Viera bless the soul of her chosen.”

“Viera bless him,” the others said together.

With Haelio gone, they were the last two heroes of their era. His friend Degoxamaton, and himself. But he already knew, way before then. The Blood would die last. As he had said himself, Degoxamaton was tough bastard. Surviving his spear was hard. Defeating him was even harder.

The tired hero knew. He was getting older and slower each time the sun rose in the eastern skies. The stupid injury he had gotten today was evidence enough of his declining skills. The utter chaos of this battle was proof enough of his mind losing its sharpness. A dull blade and a dull mind. And so the tired hero knew – he would be the next one to die.

He awoke to the sound of water being poured. His side hurt, and he gradually remembered the reason. Right... I'm not a hero anymore. I'm just... Astrael, free of shackles and worries. His head ached too, though he didn't know why. He opened his eyes and frowned, blinded by the sunlight coming through the window. Something rustled in the room, and he glanced to the side, only to see a maidservant rush through the door.

It wasn't her who returned shortly thereafter, but Rina. Before the door closed behind his sister, Astrael caught a glimpse of half a dozen armour suits outside. He raised a tired hand and waved. “I'm glad to see you haven't been assassinated while I was out. Have your would-be protectors finally started to do their job properly?”

She gave him a sad smile. “They won't leave me alone for a second, now. The bloodsguard is in a panicked state, jumping at shadows and giving mean glares to anyone barely suspicious.”

He looked at her for a second. It was all the time he needed to guess that she felt guilty about something. Leon's injury, perhaps, though he had no idea how severe it was. The knight and the maid who died in the storage room, most definitely.

“How are things?” he asked. She glanced at the window and closed the transparent silk curtains. That was when he realized he wasn't in his usual room, as it shouldn't have any curtains – only wooden panels. “Where are we? And how long did I sleep?” He had a feeling he had been unconscious much longer than he should have been because of the blood loss.

“A whole day.” She grabbed a chair and sat next to the bed. “You hit your head when you fell. I asked that they give you a room on the last floor, not far from mine. This place here would be your new chambers from now on.”

“Much appreciated,” he said, nodding, and touched the side of his skull, where it hurt. Moved a hand to his side, felt his wound, and knew it wasn't too much of an issue. It was a scratch, he always knew it, and the fact that he almost bled to death had more to do with his sister than the injury itself. Astrael observed the room more carefully. It wasn't as spacious as Rina's, but it was still better than his old one – not that he had been spending a lot of time in his previous chambers, as he was often at the Feanir estate and would spend many nights there.

“So... How are things, you ask...” she said as if she didn't really know where to begin. No, that's not what I want to know.

“How are you?” he asked his sister. She had gone through a lot, and it showed on her expression. “Should we talk?”

She shrugged. “What is there to talk about? There was an assassination attempt and...” she paused, looked down, and when she finally raised her eyes, took a determined tone. “And even though there was casualties, we won. Or at least, we didn't lose.”

Good answer. She looked surprisingly collected now that things seemed to have cooled down. Entirely different from the crying girl curled up in a dark corner of the storage room. Astrael tried to sit on his bed, and Rina fetched the cup of water he heard the maid pouring earlier. Still, she may have said that, but he knew there was something she wanted to talk about. He waited for her to inquire, and she was quick to do so.

“I've been asking Phiramel about... the blood.”

He drank all the water in one go. “And?” he asked with genuine curiosity, wondering what conclusions she had reached.

“And I haven't the slightest clue about what it is. Phiramel only said I was meant to learn about it at my consecration, and that I shouldn't speak about it to anyone.”

“And yet here we are, speaking about it,” he mocked. “How disobedient of you.”

But Rina didn't find any of it amusing, and gave him a disapproving frown. “You knew, didn't you?”

She stared at him, as if she was trying to see through his skull, and he stared back, his mind free of any worry. He already had a lie ready for an occasion such as this. “Indeed. I read about it in books, but I wasn't sure what to make of it at the time. Though I understood when I saw you... bleeding back.”

“Is this the blessing of Xito? Why did I-”

“Why did you drain my blood, what does it mean, how does it work... Is that what you want to ask?” She nodded. “I'll explain what I know later. For now, can you tell me what happened after I fell unconscious?”

“The bloodsguard came to my rescue – a bit late, obviously – and they led a hunt in the temple for possible accomplices that could still be hiding. None were found, but there's tension with the Vierans, to say the least.”

“Of course there is. Twas a Vieran who started this bloody show.” With these words, they both fell into a short silence. No doubt Rina was trying to piece together the truth behind the attack.

“There are people pointing fingers toward elder Therenus because of his foreign connections,” she said at last. “Do you think it's possible he had something to do with it?”

“Nonsense,” Astrael objected. “You're far more useful to him alive.” He rubbed his temples and put order in his thoughts. “...At first I believed it was Phiramel, trying to frame Therenus by getting Vierans to commit a fake attempt on your life, but...”

“But?”

“But that's not it either. In the storage room, it was clear that there was nothing fake about the assassins, that they were trying their very best to see you very dead. And I doubt Phiramel would have taken such a risk, as he'd lose everything if you were to be killed under his watch.”

“Because he has the people's support as long as he has mine,” Rina realized. “Which is supposed to be Therenus' domain.”

Astrael nodded. “So long as you're alive and in a good relationship with Phiramel, he'll have the means to challenge the elder for the plebs' backing. There's no way he would risk harming you, he is smarter than that. It is the same for Therenus too. I don't think anyone in Callir would have done it, in fact, for you're useful to everyone, and it is unlikely anyone here would gain anything from your death.”

“You thought of all that at the time?” she asked with somewhat incredulous eyes. He raised a brow and shrugged. If I don't think about these things, nobody here will, apparently...

“Anyhow, I see two possibilities now. Either the assassins were a group of rogues and murderers who just happened to be Vierans with a dislike for the blood church... or they were hired by someone who wants everybody to believe that. Am I mistaken in assuming that Therenus and his good friend lord Elric Danalion are in a rather pronounced state of distress right now?”

Rina swallowed loudly. “Err... You're right. This is the wrong place and time to be friends with Vierans. The elder withdrew his foreign slaves from the temple and even master Odel looks nervous.”

It's already that bad even though only one day passed, and it will only get worse in the long term. Astrael already knew that soon enough, the Danalion house would be faced with two choices – to cease all trade and activities with the city-states of Viera, or to be antagonised by angry citizens and rival factions taking advantage of the situation...

“It doesn't matter why the assassins came...” he muttered. “Whoever is the enemy, we can't do anything as long as we know nothing about it... We do have enemies we know much about, however, and if we want to strike them decisively, now's as good a time as any. It is a drastic change of plans, and it may be perilous to act so rashly, but I doubt a similar opportunity will ever present itself again in the future.”

Rina pinched her lips quizzically. “What are you talking about?”

He ignored her for the time, and fell deep in thought. He had all the tools at his disposal, but who? Who should he be striking down? Therenus was old, with perhaps half a decade left to live at most, and his faction was on the brink of destruction. A slight push would be enough to get rid of him and his supporters. With his age, it wasn't far-fetched to think that time alone would be enough to see him fall, and it would surely be hard for a successor to immediately restore his faction's influence. Perhaps it would be wise to get rid of the powerful Phiramel now, since the elder wasn't much of a threat anymore.

Yet Astrael's friendship with the Feanir brothers was putting him in a safe position from where he could have a clear sight of the faction's goals, and either lend a hand or thwart their plans, should he want to do one or the other. With the elder out of the picture, Phiramel's increasing control over Callir would be unavoidable but it could be swiftly dealt with by meddling with the affairs of house Feanir... However he had no similar safety net with Therenus and house Danalion, should they get back on their feet once their rivals were gone.

“Either way I face an issue, and I can't decide lightly.”

“Would you care to explain?” Rina said in an annoyed tone.

“Hm.” He looked straight in her eyes, and took a very low voice. “Who do you think is the most dangerous, Therenus or Phiramel?”

She thought for a bit and answered with the same discretion, probably aware that they were about to have a conversation that they wouldn't want anyone to listen in. “Sir Leon told me once that a desperate and cornered beast is more dangerous than anything else. That it is the one thing he is scared of when he's in the forest, hunting with his family.”

“...Therenus, then.”

“The way I see it, he's loosing every bit of influence he had over the people because of his ties with lord Danalion and the Vieran cities. I've heard that his friends are turncoats and that his nights are tormented and sleepless. Who knows what he could do, trying to stop his life's work from collapsing right in front of him.”

“Yes, yes, indeed...” Astrael rubbed his chin and realized he was grinning. I'll cause the elder's downfall... Bitter and biased as he is, he'll see Phiramel as the man behind the one last push that sent him toward hell and disgrace. Better yet, if I can get Phiramel to give the finishing blow himself... In everyone's eyes, these two old bastards will be mutually destroying themselves, a natural development after decades of being at each other's throat. If it works... “Yet another gamble,” he concluded enigmatically.

Rina grimaced in frustration but kept silent, perhaps understanding she wouldn't have a clear answer while her brother was still pondering on the matter. His decision was almost made anyway. Taking either one of the churchmen would require Rina's assistance and cooperation. She was clearly more wary of Therenus than she was of Phiramel, and perhaps she would refuse to help him if it was about crushing the high-priest's faction, and Leon Feanir with it.

“Therenus it is.” He exhaled deeply and made up his mind. “Beloved sister, I have many things to confess. I've been somewhat dishonest and I've left you in the dark about some important matters. Today is the day I reveal all of it to you, as I need your help. I'll tell you about all sorts of plots and schemes I've conceived and sometimes abandoned, I'll tell you about your godly blessing, and what it entails, and I'll tell you how I'm about to take the definite first step toward my initial goal – to put you in charge of the church, and the whole city while we're at it. Because that's the most freedom you can hope to achieve while you bear that mark. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

Her half-confused frown was quickly followed by a face betraying her frenzied, hurried thoughts. Then, eventually, she nodded. He sighed in relief, guiltless despite his intention to keep his past life, his biggest secret, what it should be – a secret.

“But first, sweet sister, I need you to do something for me. It is dangerous, but my plan cannot work without it, so I'll tell you about that before we begin. Now, do you trust me?”

“Did you ever give me a reason not to?”

My poor girl, you have no idea... “There's a couple of things I need to prepare, and then...” He gave her his best smile. “You'll have to drink a very large amount of poison during supper, and as far as everyone's concerned, be the target of another assassination attempt.”