“Johannes, what do you mean the Lightwatcher’s heir is here? I’m not surprised the king has arrived, given that the captain of his guard has just been buried. But why should that be any of my concern either?” Berthold almost immediately countered the sallow young man who was breathing heavily in the entrance to the stuffy records room. His tone expressed both his lack of concern and his interest nonetheless at the same time.

Johannes took a moment to catch his breath, pressing his hand against one of the dusty shelves to rest before speaking, “F-francis told me the Lightwatcher’s heir is here, I think to replace Sir Edward. He’s accompanied the king here. And Berthold, the king asked for you. By name,” examining the other young man’s face as he again tried to catch his breath, Berthold found himself at a loss for words.

“This is not the kind of jest I appreciate Johannes, you know that,” he eventually mustered, a sense of confusion still overtaking his thoughts.

“I’m not joking,” was all his taller friend needed to say, turning back towards the exit of the library and quickly walking there, “come on, I’ll bring you to them,” he waved Berthold over with his right hand.

Walking back through the temple, it was somehow even more desolate than before. A strange feeling in the air was now added to the emptiness that came from the ceremony.

“Where is everybody? Are they still all at the burial?” Berthold wondered aloud, not exactly expecting to get an answer.

“No, they left. The ceremony ended almost an hour ago, I think you’ve been in that record room a little too long,” Johannes chuckled and looked back, though his face showed a little bit of concern.

‘I suppose that explains why it’s so empty here…’ he wasn’t sure it really did, but there wasn’t time to think it through, as the pair arrived in the central hall shortly after his question.

Along with Francis, who Berthold was surprised to see in the central hall again, stood two men near the altar. One of them was dressed in obviously royal garb, of purple, blue, and crimson colors. His cape was stitched with the sign of the Comet. It wasn’t hard to guess who he was, but Berthold did not recognize the man’s face either. Even the portraits he had seen looked barely anything like the man in front of him. WIth none of the small blemishes that were present in person.

‘The king? He’s really here?’ Berthold felt a sudden push against his back, as he saw Johannes bend the knee next to him and he did the same a second later.

The regal man looked down at them to speak, his voice calm and dignified. But a hint of some other, perhaps dark, intention appeared in it, a note that Berthold did not recognize and yet was wary of, “rise, while I appreciate your formality this is not the time. The captain of my guard is dead and the reason for it are rebels against both the church and my own rule,” he looked at both of them, almost as if unsure about which to speak to, “something I’m sure you may know of. But it is of no relevance to this discussion. We have arrived here so that the knighthood of Kard Lightwatcher will be accepted by the church of the Comet in addition to my own decree. You two are Francis’ apprentices, are you not?” he looked over both of them once again.

“Yes, your grace,” Johannes answered as briefly as he could. Sending confused looks at Berthold after the king’s comment.

“Good, then you shall perform the knighting ceremony. There’s no time for delay, we are scheduled to leave back for the palace shortly. I shall give you ten moments to prepare if you require them,” he looked to the two and then back to the head priest, “I hope you are right to choose the two of them, this might become a grand occasion in not so long,” the king then looked to who Berthold presumed was Kard. A young man of black hair and pale golden eyes. His clothes were simple, but he wore a cape of blue and crimson, the colors of the Comet. It struck Berthold as odd, squires usually came with capes of brown or white, to symbolise their pasts, but he brushed it aside.

Kard then turned to them for the first time, looking directly at Berthold. The priest didn’t know the heir to the Lightwatchers’ great line, but something in his eyes told him he would surely hear of him again. It was almost like a faint halo surrounded those golden tinted eyes.

The knighting ceremony required much preparation. First, the potential knight's sword had to be dipped in blessed water, then Berthold was forced to chant various lines of absurd scripture as he sanctified the odd sword the king had provided. Berthold wasn’t even sure it was truly Kard’s sword. As it looked to be a blade made of Comet steel, with a radiant blue shine and purple tinges along the lines of its edge. And it had an odd inscription on the handle, which he was curious to read, but he was not familiar with the writing, so he noted it in his mind.

Second, he had to bring the temple's own Comet blessed blade out of the deepest part of the crypt, while Johannes read the oath of knighthood to the Lightwatcher. The temple did not tend well to the crypt, after all, it was Berthold’s own job most of the time, which made it a complete waste. It was a creepy place, dark, dreary, and full of the musty smell of death and decay, and he hated being there. Nonetheless he strode through it, the situation making him almost uncaring. He knew that place and what it held too well to care, but his heart still stung with wild abandon.

Familiar graves flanked both his sides, with their tombstones adorning the small coffins sunk into the walls. Each was of important priests to the history of the church, all taught and trained at this temple. Berthold didn't bother to remember any of them, they were all most likely sanctimonious fools. As he reached the end of the tunnel, where the later graves were kept, he found the one name he knew. His father, Jan. Some sense of dread overcame Berthold, as it always did when he remembered how his own father was burned in crimson fire. Despite that, he was buried there, if only by order of Francis.

The grave was simple, and no one would recognize it for the grave of a heretic. Only one thing made it unique from the other priest’s graves, a single bunch of now wilted flowers were placed on its base. But today was different, a man was standing there. A middle aged man of ashen black hair.

“You’re Berthold, aren’t you?” the man asked, his voice low.

“I don’t see why I should answer that, the question of why you are here is far more important,” the young man responded. For some reason, he felt he had seen the man before, and his presence here made him wary.

“They told me to expect such a response from the son of the great Jan,” he chuckled, but Berthold didn’t sense a hint of sharpness in his voice.

“Again, who are you and why are you here? This crypt is closed after ceremonies, so please leave now,” he recited the request from memory, trying to settle his own fear.

“I will leave, if that’s what you wish. But I assure you, we will meet again,” he walked past Berthold, then whispered in the younger man’s ear as he left, “choose your side in this well, and be careful of that king and his new knight,” and before any explanation could be demanded, he had disappeared beyond view.

‘I think the only ones I need to be careful of are people such as you,’ Berthold dismissed the odd fellow with a joke in his mind and continued, but some part of him was still worried.

Only a chamber ahead of him lay the Comet blessed blade, it was locked in its own separate room from the tombs as to leave it safe from the public. The room had murals of great battles that had been fought by the church for its continuation. Many tales of grand rebellions against dictators and fools had been born from this blade. Well, that is what most children were taught, Berthold figured otherwise. A fraction of those may have been true, but if anything this blade had only brought bloodshed. Just like every other one of its kind.

‘Stop reminiscing, this is not the time,’ he shook his head with half disciplined anger. He might have not enjoyed this, but disappointing the king was out of the question. Taking the blade carefully, he hurried back up to the central hall to start the ceremony.

Kard was kneeling in front of the altar. His sword in Johannes’ hands, and the church’s blade in Berthold’s. Careful to not move the sword from its place pointing at the heavens, the young priest walked down the aisles towards the altar, and silence reigned for a few seconds.

“It has been more than ten moments, Francis,” the king suddenly burst into the room, only to notice the two young priests ready for the ceremony. With a dissatisfied tone he showed his surprise, “oh, you are finally ready? Very well then, I command you to begin,” his voice was hardy and authoritative, and clearly different than before.

Berthold stood on the altar for merely a moment. Whispering one final blessing onto the church’s sword.

“May you let this man’s aim always strike true, may his enemies fall from the wrath of the Comet delivered through him and his righteous hand, and may he never stray from the true path of the comet,” Berthold now stood over Kard, and with a fluid motion struck the flat edge of the sword against his cheek gently, then against his forehead.

“From this moment forth, you are a knight of the Comet,” Berthold had no intention to wait for the man’s oath. It was not common any longer for a knight to make his own, but Kard caught him off guard.

“If it is the Comet’s will that I become a knight, then I swear I will serve my lord to my full ability. I will fulfill his will while not hurting those faithful to the crown and the Comet. Furthermore, the weak will never see arms raised against them while I am there, and I will punish those who abuse their kindness. As that is my duty,” his voice was clear, Berthold somehow knew he meant it. Johannes looked shocked, and the king even scoffed. But for the first time in years, Berthold found himself laughing with none of his own intention.

“I hope you keep to that,” he whispered to Kard, and then he left. Uncaring what the king, Francis, or Johannes thought.