When one thinks of great temples, he can easily be brought to picture certain images: massive, solemn buildings with soaring pinnacles and lofty arches; slender columns, marble floors, roofs from which gods look down, their countenance inscribed in colors by the greatest artists. When one pictures temple grounds, he easily imagines sprawling courtyards and idyllic gardens, and buildings devoted to sustaining the life of the clergy; the hum of prayers and chants, the steps of crowds, the ever-present smell of incense.

And that was how the temples of the Gods were in Blackstone and, even more, much more, how they had been back when Truvia thrived.

All of them, except the temples dedicated to No-Eyes, the Nightwalker.

No voice broke the silence of the holiest grounds of Silent Nama; no crowd of pilgrims made voyages to them; no priest toiled inside of their boundaries. The greatest temples of the Dark One were dilapidated ruins where no footprint marred the thick layers of dust; their grounds overgrown stretches of forest.

And still, Gorren didn’t need the Doomspeaker to say a word to know when they entered into the temple grounds.

A hush fell upon the forest, the ever-present sounds of the woods turning mute and distant as they had just crossed an invisible boundary. The wind fell to a slight breeze, cold and foreboding. The shadows seemed to thicken, the trees to darken, to grow closer and to bore down on the path. Even the light seemed to dim, and the air to grow heavy.

As the coach rattled down the path, a sense of menace crept over Prim. Seated at his post, the driver felt as many eyes were watching from the growing shadows, like if the darkness itself was looking down at him. And still, it wasn’t the only feeling making his blood run cold. A sense of deep silence and welcoming peace permeated the air. It called to him, inviting him to come inside, to rest his head and think no more. It should have felt a least a bit comforting but it wasn’t. If anything, it felt even more disquieting than the invisible menace.

The wind wafting through the trees sounded like shreds of whispers. Something told him that, if he tried to pay attention, he could even snatch their meanings. For some reason, the prospect sent a jolt of fear through him.

The driver tightened his shoulders and snapped his ears shut, focusing on the road.

“This ain‘t no place for the living to be, no sir,” he mumbled glumly. The presence of the silent Doomspeaker seating beside him felt like ice pressed against his face.

Still, he was Gremlin that that was that. Nothing to do about it but to keep going. That didn’t stop him from complaining under his breath, though.

The coach rattled its way through the forest, jolting and bumping across the uneven path.

At the Doomspeaker’s call, it stopped.

Further on, the path disappeared into a tangle of vegetation, making it impossible to continue.

“From here on, supplicants are required to walk,” the Doomspeaker explained after that Gorren had descended from the coach.

The old man looked toward the woods engulfing the path with a measured expression. Differently from his driver, he could feel the divine energies infusing everything there, from the trees to the smallest blade of grass. There wasn’t a single word from the mundane world to describe that aura but, if Gorren had to pick one, he would say that it was “silence”.

He set his jaw.

“You will not come?” He asked, narrowly glancing at the priest.

The Doomspeaker lowered his head. “I have not been called.”

Gorren acknowledged with a grunt and turned to Prim. “Wait here with him,” he ordered. “I’ll be back soon.”

The driver rubbed his arms like if he was struggling with a deep cold. He nodded somberly.

Without another word, Gorren turned and walked toward the end of the path.

“Be careful, Speaker,” the Doomspeaker called from afar. “Even if you have been called, some of the guardians may still challenge you!”

“I know,” Gorren grumbled without turning.

And like that, he left the open path for the dark forest.

It was like a page had been flipped, like if a door had been slammed shut. The moment the path had disappeared, the forest closed around him. The trees leaned down until their leaves touched his hair; the breeze ruffled his beard, carrying bodiless whispers that pushed against his mind. They welcomed, bided him to stay and let his burdens down.

Gorren’s bared his teeth, letting the anger that always simmered at the back of his mind flare out. It roared out like a wildfire, pushing back the whispers crowding his mind. Startled, the trees drew back abruptly, some with branches smoking and smoldering.

Furious, Gorren watched as shadows flowed like black ink on the branches. When they dissipated, the sizzling was gone, not even a leaf showing signs of burning.

Still, the whispers had ceased, replaced by an expectant silence.

Teeth bared, Gorren glared at the dark forest surrounding him. “I don’t need your rest,” he growled. “Stay out of my head.”

The breeze whispered amongst the branches, muted now but soaked with mercy.

Gorren spat. “And keep your pity.”

The breeze turned more discreet but didn’t stop.

Gorren snorted with disdain. Ignoring it, he advanced.

The undergrowth was thick, and walking turned to be a laborious endeavor, made even more so by the whispers carried by the breeze. More than once, Gorren had to open his way with magic or push back the aura of the place pressing down on him.

Shadows slithered like snakes away from his steps. Many gazes, hidden and one with the gloom, silently watched him pass.

He ignored them all.

Then, a presence stood in his path.

Gorren stopped. This, he knew, was no breeze or shadows.

The terrain before him sloped down in a trench filled with wild growth. Darkness edged each leaf and stalk, like if the shadows had grown alongside the plants.

Gorren peered into it with attention. There was no rustling amidst the vegetation but he still saw a long figure slither between it. Dark, sluggish, its presence appeared to his mind as a boulder peering from a mudhole.

A hum rose from the trench, and the sound of a large body scraping against the dirt.

“Loud loud loud,” the dark creature said with a voice that was deep and sluggish, as its owner was only half-awake. “So loud…”

There was a heartbeat of silence as Gorren felt a presence move its attention upon him.

“Who mars the sanctity of these woods?” The voice asked. “Step forward, beating heart, let me see your face…”

Gorren remained where he was. It was unwise to show one’s face to creatures originating from Nama’s divine realm.

“You don‘t need to see it, dark one,” he said firmly. “Step aside.”

The creature moved around in the trench, humming deeply. “Loud loud loud,” it muttered. “This is no place for you. Get back.”

“I will not,” Gorren replied. “I have been called. Step aside.”

“Mmmh, called, you say?” The creature shifted noiselessly. “What is your name?”

Gorren knew what giving one’s name to creatures like that meant. He still did it though, brimming with disdain.

“I am Gorren An-Tudok. Step aside, dark one, and let me pass.”

The creature rustled in the trench, this time with more force.

“Aaaah,” it exhaled. Its bulk seemed to swell, to become more real. “Your name… aaaah, i can see you now. Come, take the gift…”

It happened in an instant.

The creature lunged out of the trench, elongating to an impossible size.

But Gorren was ready. His hand flashed with blinding light.

There was a mournful moan as the darkness was beaten back. The creature was not revealed as much as consumed with it, only the gloom at the bottom of the trench resisting.

As the flash passed, the figure in the trench drew back, muttering.

“Loud loud loud,” droned the voice, turning weaker and weaker until it was only another whisper in the breeze.

Gorren stood in the returned gloom, listening to the silence.

The barriers between planes were thin there, enough for the divine realm of Nama to intrude on the material world. So it was for the creatures living there, creatures old and dark and powerful; benevolent as well, but their benevolence was inimical to life and the gift they gave with largesse was the stilling of hearts. There was no malevolence in it: at their core, they were bringers of endless peace, full of love and pity for those that shouldered the burdens of life.

The barriers were thin but they were still there, shrouding the material world to the divine creatures. Giving one’s face gave them power over you; giving your name allowed them to see you.

Gorren spat. No mewling creature of the dark would be stopping him, that was for sure.

He crossed the trench and continued on.

He cut his way through the forest like a wildfire, walking briskly, his rage sending shadows and gloom skittering away. Darkened plants drew back from him, figures slithered in the undergrowth, away from his feet. Only bigger shapes in the shadows didn’t run, watching him as he passed but never approaching.

He paid no mind to the direction: a power ruled into those woods, a power to which space bowed. It would have been that power to lead him in the right way.

And so it was.

After a while, the forest opened, and he found himself in another place.

Stars wheeled overhead in a sky as black as ink, forming patterns alien to any astronomer.

A vast, somber graveyard opened before him. Rows of sagging tombstones, many leaning at awkward angles, filled it. Cypresses and trees devoid of leaves stood silent vigil, their skeletal branches hosting dark crows, the creatures watching with shining, little eyes.

A single, gateless arch with no fence led the way to the cemetery, a single owl perched upon it.

There was peace there, silence, deep. Complete.

Gorren took a breath, then walked toward the gate. As he advanced, a pale figure appeared beneath the owl. It gestured in welcome and stood aside, bowing its head.

Gorren glanced at it briefly, at the empty sockets and skeletal hands, then walked through the gate.

Murmurs reached him as he walked amidst the tombstones: the sound of muted crying. He turned to look.

Figures, indistinct as in a haze, kneeled amidst the graves, few and lonely. Pilgrims, the few that made their way to the Gardens of Death; people come to seek comfort for their losses. Each had the company of a pale figure, offering what little succor they could with their silent presence.

Gorren turned away, but as he did so, his gaze strayed on the name etched on one of the tombstones.

Timothy.

His gut twisted in a way that was as sudden as it was agonizing. Bile filled his throat. He clenched his fists and bared his teeth, grief and rage and loathing welling up. For an incandescent moment, he felt the roaring need to strike at that stone and smash it to pieces.

He forced himself to calm down. That was no place for violence, and even then, what would it accomplish?

He felt the pale presences accost him, their silent company soothing. He stubbornly ignored them, focusing on the pain beating in his chest.

For a long moment, he stared at the tombstone. Then, with a shuddering breath, he turned and walked away.

The path led to a simple crypt, a blocky building of black basalt devoid of windows and with a single entrance without a door. Beside it, there was a small stone bowl, filled with blood.

Gorren ignored it and walked inside.

The interior of the crypt was filled with a darkness so deep that seemed solid. The little light coming from the entrance formed a thin corridor amidst it like a bridge between the sea, revealing a single stone staircase leading down. A great statue of Nama loomed down from the shadows, its stony mantle falling to block entrance to the staircase.

Except that it was no mantle.

A squirming, swarming thing that seemed to be one and many at the same time, one with the darkness and yet not, enveloped the statue’s legs with its bulk, barring the way.

Gorren felt the thing’s conscience brush against its mind; it felt like dipping a hand into a well of frigid water of which one couldn’t see the bottom, a fathomless abyss where stones laid in mounds, of which each was one thought, with only those breaching the surface of the water looking toward the now and here. Old, older than imagination, the thing didn’t speak in words but in emotions; now, it radiated with a steady, quiet kind of hostility, like a flame simmering beneath the ashes.

Gorren didn’t let himself get intimidated.

“Step aside, Divine Guardian,” he intimated. “I have been called here.”

The Divine Guardian was no blundering creature of the darkness, susceptible, in its well-engrained instincts, to interfere with her Goddess’ plans.

Without a sound, it slithered away from the staircase, retreating back on the statue.

Keeping an eye on it, Gorren walked down the staircase. The steps were large and uneven, roughly carved out of the black basalt forming that place, somewhat difficult to navigate. It was a secret relief when he could take his gaze away from the Guardian to focus it on where his feet were.

As he descended, the solemn silence that had weighed over everything until then changed, deepened, in a way that mortal words weren’t able to grasp.

Eventually, when he emerged into a vast underground chamber, the silence and the stillness had transcended mortal bounds; they were deep enough that Gorren imagined they could quiet the eruption of a volcano, still the waves of the sea, stop the clouds in the sky. As living things, they pressed down on him, stealing the warmth from his body, making him feel like the last living being in a dead world.

That was a place holy to the Nightwalker, of the highest order.

Slowly, Gorren looked around. In that silence, his heartbeat felt like a series of explosions. Even breathing required some effort, as if the air he drew in his lungs didn‘t contain enough vitality to sustain his life.

The chamber was spartan and devoid of ornamentation, the walls having been roughly carved out of the rock of the earth. A single brazier burned at the center of the chamber, filling it with shadows.

Gorren frowned. A dark cowled figure sat on a stone throne in front of the brazier, the shadows condensing and flowing around it.

For a split moment, the old man hesitated. Until then, Nama had appeared to him with her most “friendly” visage. Here, he was sure she would appear differently. He had seen some of her more intimidating appearances: it had never been a pleasant experience.

He pushed away those doubts a moment after having them. Ridiculous. He was Gorren An-Tudok. He was above such weaknesses.

The figure on the throne gestured for him to come close.

Out of instinct, Gorren smoothed his clothes. He realized what he was doing a moment later, grumbled and walked forward.

The woman on the throne was the image of decrepitude. She slumped on her seat, her head bowed heavily. Her hands, paper-like skin pulled taut over bones, with fingers far too long to be human, were the only visible part of her body. The rest was obscured by an ample black cloak that fell in folds at her feet. The face under the cowl was nothing but a vague shape in the gloom licked by dancing shadows. The bone mask usually covering it rested on the throne’s armrest.

The Crone, Gorren thought, stopping in front of the throne.

He bowed slightly, offering his respect to Lady Death.

For a moment, the abyssal silence of the place ruled without contest. Even the flame in the brazier, he noticed, didn’t make a sound; no coal crackling, no slight hissing.

Nothing.

A low, grating sound rattled out of the cowl.

“What a terrible guest,” the Goddess mused. Her voice was low and thin, barely more than a whisper.

“My land hisses in displeasure for the intruder disturbing the peace with his angry heartbeat” she whispered. “The trees, the shadows, the dust and the half-asleep, they all whine and moan and mumble against the rudeness and the lack of respect, begging me to chase out and punish.”

Impossibly, the Goddess’ voice didn’t feel as it disturbed the silence of that place. Instead, it was like it compounded it, as it was part of it.

“Is that why i am here?” Gorren asked, refusing to ask for forgiveness. “To receive No-Eyes’ punishment?” He ignored how his words disappeared a moment after he pronounced them, as if the air swallowed them whole.

“Maybe maybe,” the crone chuckled under her breath. “Even with the Rules still in place, my power waxes strong here. Could even the Old Man of the Tower stand against it?”

Gorren stood tall, refusing to be cowed. “Thou shalt not sever or interfere with one which destiny is still to reach its conclusion,” he intoned. “That is one of your own teachings if i am not mistaken.”

The Crone remained silent for a moment.

“Indeed. And what God doesn’t respect its own teachings?” A hint of amusement crept in her voice. “I am glad you paid attention.”

Gorren didn’t answer. He wasn’t there to reminisce about the past.

“It’s not just for some ceremony that you had me come here.”

The Goddess nodded tiredly. “Sharp as always, i see.”

The chamber seemed to inflate and pulse as she took a shuddering breath.

“Answer this, Gorren An-Tudok. What is the greatest treasure and most heavy of weights?”

Gorren knew better than to be taken off-guard by the sudden question. Instead, he thought about a possible answer. He needed only a moment.

“Truth.”

The Goddess nodded, before slumping down. Even those small movements seemed to take a lot out of her.

“That is correct,” she murmured. “And truth is what you want, don’t you? About my presence here, about the Gods’ intentions, about the thing that people call the Flaming Light…”

Gorren gazed piercingly at her. “Yes.”

“Soon you’ll have it. Soon, but not now.”

Gorren ruthlessly quashed down the rising frustration. “Why not now?”

“We have to prepare you first.”

Gorren stiffened. Prepare? He needed no help to prepare. And was a trick of the light or he had just seen a humorous smile appear on her face?

“I need no preparation,” he said, outraged. He was no bumbling kid needing teaching!

“Oh you do, you undoubtedly do.” The Goddess’s chuckle was as raspy as sand on bone. “And even so, if you don’t know what are you going to face, how can you be sure to be truly ready?”

Gorren hesitated at that.

“You felt that presence, didn’t you?”

Gorren recalled it as it had just happened: that awful presence at the Church first and at the Theater then. That horrible power behind everything; his mortal enemy.

His pride protested but he had no choice to admit the truth of what she said. And then, if even the Gods were ready to help him, it was clear that this menace reached far deeper than he thought.

The thought was quite concerning. No, even if grudgingly, he had to be ready to accept all the help he could get.

Nama seemed to grasp his thoughts. “Now you understand.” She chuckled dryly. “For a centuries-old human, you can be incredibly childish sometimes.”

Gorren snorted in disdain.

“Are you going to feed me some more crumbs of knowledge, aren’t you?” He said with sarcasm. Annoyed but eager to know, and even more annoyed for that, he adjusted his jacket. “So the Gods are starting to put the cards in the table, i see. This Flaming Light is your enemy.”

“As is yours,” Nama pointed out with some amusement.

Gorren turned away from her with a sound of annoyance

“So what?” He asked, pacing restlessly. “The Gods want me to destroy the Light? Can’t they do it themselves?”

“Are you saying that it’d be fine for you if someone destroys it in your place?”

Gorren stopped abruptly, glaring at her. “That monster will die by my hand and my hand alone,” he growled. Then, more calmly: “My question still stands.”

“In due time,” Nama sighed. “All in due time.”

Gorren didn’t bother to stop the frustration to reach his face. “Crumbs and nothing else, as always,” he grumbled. “For how long are you going to lead me by the nose like a child?”

He waited, hoping for an answer, an explanation, anything. To his frustration, the Goddess wasn’t forthcoming.

He snorted in disgust. Fucking Gods, always playing their little games. Only Ur was unworthy of his disdain. The Hidden King had much more important matters to put his mind to than what mortals did.

“Suit yourself,” he grunted. “But to be clear, i won’t consider myself indebted to any of you, no matter what help you give me.”

The chuckle coming from beneath the cowl was dry as bone. “You always manage to amuse me, friend. Any mortal man would be knee-deep in gratitude by now.”

“I am not any mortal man,” Gorren replied, eyes narrowing. “And i won’t be your dog. I walk this path for my own ends.”

“Suit yourself.” Nama shrugged. “Shall we?”

Gorren nodded in assent. Despite his peevishness, he was eager to see.

The Goddess lifted a finger, and a massive figure stomped out of the darkness.

Gorren suspiciously watched it.

The statue was completely made of bronze, the metal gleaming with the light of the fire. The likeness of Atlanta had been lovingly etched on it but no color had been added, leaving it stark and grim.

Gorren frowned. A golem?

He looked on the magnificent sword the statue held, then on the stone that had been affixed at its brow, showing a brilliant, scarlet rune.

Realization hit him.

“A Living Weapon,” he said in awe. “They are the greatest servants of the Siblings.”

“Indeed.” Nama sounded between amused and pleased. “Molded in the War Pit by the Sister of War herself, fed with the blood of the slain and tempered in a millennium of war. It‘s yours.”

Gorren was in awe. The Living Weapons were the divine servants of the Siblings, the incarnations of their will. A single one of them could slay hundreds. And now one was being gifted to him?

He reined his excitation in, turning suspicious. That gift couldn’t come without strings attached.

“Who gifts it?” He asked. “Gories?”

“No,” Nama replied. “Atlanta sends it, and as such, it bears her countenance.”

Gorren was surprised by that. “She already gifted me her daughter,” he pointed out.

“Indeed. But she doesn’t consider it a true gift since her daughter is to fruit from it as much as you. So, here this comes.”

Gorren turned at the bronze statue.

“It’s a warrior?” He asked.

“It is, but not for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s meaning is to train, not to fight.”

“Train?” Gorren needed only a moment to understand. “I see. It’s for me, isn’t it?”

Nama nodded. “You were a warrior back in the day, weren’t you? But those days are far behind. You need someone that can help you to refresh it, and improve it.”

Gorren gazed at the statue. The fire made its eyes flicker and the rune on its brow glow softly.

It was true. It was centuries from the last time he had truly fought with a weapon in hand. He had picked up the sword once again, but his body had forgotten most of all he had learned. He would benefit greatly from a teacher and a sparring partner, and in both roles, a Living Weapon was without compare.

Still, something bugged him.

A warrior would have been a double-edged sword, a pawn to use but a potential spy to be constantly wary of as well. A trainer didn’t carry strings, not with the security measures he could surround it with. That, more than the value of the gift itself, impressed him.

“What is this Flaming Light?” He mumbled, concerned. “Even the Gods help me to fight it…”

Nama heard him. “You’re welcome by the way,” she chuckled, patting her mask. “I’ll admit it: your gratitude and nice disposition always put me in a good mood.”

“Umph,” Gorren grumbled. “I’d give a leg for less of your stupid humor and more answers.”

“In due time, all in due time,” Nama exhaled. “And who knows, maybe, in the end, you will regret even knowing it.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Gorren grumbled. “Didn’t you say you wanted a rite done?”

“Oh, you remembered.” Nama sounded pleasantly surprised.

Gorren refrained from deigning her with an answer.

The Goddess chuckled. “Everything is ready and waiting.”

At her gesture, the shadows flowed and condensed before her throne. As they dispersed, they revealed a stone altar of roughly hewn rock. A bowl of the same material rested on top of it, together with a large drum of bone and skin and pots filled with dried herbs and other, less savory things. A sense of primeval antiquity exuded from all the objects.

Gorren disrobed, keeping only his trousers. The rocky floor felt uneven and dreadfully cold against his naked feet but he ignored the sensation.

Murmuring a prayer, he grabbed a fistful of herbs from a pot. He made them dangle over the fire until they started to blacken and curl, then threw them into the bowl.

“Maybe i said this already,” Nama murmured as he worked. “But your ability to lie impressed me. I didn’t think the old hermit of Tianna had such a glib tongue.”

Gorren snorted. He grabbed a bone from one of the pots: the femur of a hare. Thrusting it over the brazier, he had the fire lick it, ignoring the burning sensation on his hand.

“And I’ve already told you: i walked the halls of the Kings of Truvia long enough to know how to speak to the wealthy.” He crushed the blackened bone in his hand, then left the fragments to fall into the bowl.” And the lands of men long enough to learn how to lie.”

“True true… still, i wonder: how much was true and how much was a lie?”

Gorren sneered. He grasped another bone from the pots, the tiny skull of a raven, and repeated the same process of flame.

“Every word,” he sentenced. “Every word was true. What i said to that Joseph boy and what i said to that bunch of old men and women. None of it was a lie.”

“But?”

“But nothing!” Gorren closed his fist, crushing the skull into fragments. “All of it was true! But eventually, it’s irrelevant. I care not about the justice of the world. My quest for knowledge is far more important. I don’t care what path this world takes, only my spirit’s.”

Nama chuckled softly. “Never changing, mh?” She murmured, eliciting a snort from Gorren. “And what about that justice topic with that lawyer? About doing what is right?”

“Don’t try to drag me in the argument,” Gorren grumbled. He passed a finger over his wrist and let the blood fall into the bowl. “Doing what is right or following the law. It’s an argument men have crushed their heads about for millennia.” Closing the wound, he grabbed another pot and let spring water flow into the mixture. “I care not. I follow my own justice.”

“And that is…?”

“Vengeance.” Gorren thrust his hands in the bloody mixture and started to angrily mash it. “Vengeance for the fallen and vengeance for me. And that is all.”

For a long moment, the only sound in the chamber was that done by the hands of the old man.

“You please me, you know?” Nama murmured. “You please me greatly.”

Gorren grunted and said nothing. Grabbing hold of the bowl with bloody fingers, he tipped it over, letting the mixture flow upon the altar. Rivulets of red flowed down the rock. The altar pulsed with pleasure, the liquid disappearing into its uneven sides as it came down.

Nama sighed.

“You really please me.”