DILLON

“The only monsters in this world are the Devils who bring forth calamity,” Father Phillippe strokes Arellia’s hair tenderly but his fingers tremble softly between each motion as if he doesn’t quite believe his own words. “Our Angel has been reborn and with Her blood, we have the chance to start over– to save the world from misfortune.”

I spent half my life dealing regularly with blood and death due to my occupation, but what had been done to those people… it was messy, wild. A frenzied, horrific attack, lacking in control. Had I gotten there earlier, could those senseless deaths have been avoided?

No, they were paid to die, prophesied to. Their deaths were predetermined. Only a monster could do what she did. But, who am I to judge? I have killed for much less but never in such fashion. I clench my jaw. “What are you planning?”

“Eighteen years the world has waited for this Blessed day. The sky was beautiful on the eve of Her birth. Blood red like a chrysanthemum flower, the eclipse even more so!” He turns to look down at Arellia, brows knitted together in sorrow. “The world is dying, the people are losing Faith. We must make them see again.”

“By taking lives?”

“By any means necessary. Those bandits were vermin, insects. They rape and murder and steal, all for their own gain. Their sacrifice will be the gateway to the return of our Angels.” The priest gives me an easy smile as if we are discussing the weather. “Now that they are gone, we have rid the world of worthless vermin. A disease to society. To the Faith. You will see.”

None will shed a tear for the deaths of those bandits save their kin, however, there will be mourners just the same. Is that how people like Father Phillipe justify their deaths? If they are–in the eyes of society and the Divine– deemed unworthy due to their lack of wealth, then their deaths are for the betterment of the world.

I have seen men in spotless suits and fancy shoes do much worse on a regular Wednesday night than any of the crimes these bandits have committed in their short lives.

“Are you not a mercenary by trade? You are no stranger to sin. No stranger to taking human lives. The men you fought had families, a home, a dream.” His lips twitch at the corners as if he is trying to hide a smile because he knows he is right. Godsdamn it, I know it too. I make no excuses for my crimes.

“You are a priest, are you not? Are you not afraid of condemnation from your Gods and Angels?”

“It is Their will. If They did not wish them dead, those men and women would still breathe today. The Angels require blood and blood they shall have. By any means necessary.”

“I don’t give a fuck about which one of your God’s arses you want to lick and pretend it's for the betterment of the world. Just leave me the fuck out of this.” The priest lets out a small breath, disappointment clear in his expression.

“From the moment you were born, your path has led you here, to this room, to this moment. I sensed it when I first saw you with Her Highness. The world is shifting, Dillon. Move with it or you die.”

My fists are balled tightly at my side. “Son, are you not tired of fighting? Living day to day with no purpose? No love, no home. You rage toward death and senseless battles because you fear the quiet, do you not? You drink to numb yourself from your reality. You fight because the adrenaline makes you forget.” The priest gives me a slight smile. Mocking, pity, they all look at me the same.

“You don’t know shit about me.”

“No matter how much pain you inflict on yourself, you cannot change your past. But you can help us guide the weak into a brighter future.”

“The only place I’ll be going is far from whatever you and your kind are cooking up. I’ll take no part in this.”

“And yet the Gods will it otherwise,” The priest says. I let out a short breath of frustration, opening my mouth to speak but Father Phillippe cuts me off. “No matter where you go, you cannot run from your fate. You are bound now to the Faith. By Blood.”

For so long I have been a victim of circumstance, caught up in petty squabbles and led to war, fighting other’s battles so I can forget my own. I have always been a reckless fool, hopeless and cynical, but there is a voice deep in my mind that urges me to run, to flee. This fight is not mine. I can leave. Run.

“I’m no believer.” With long, rushed strides, I race toward the exit but my legs are heavy as if some invisible force is compelling me to stay. My eyes flick to Arellia and as if she senses my gaze, she turns slowly toward me. A chill trickles down the side of my arms as her dull eyes peer into mine. When she blinks, the heaviness in my legs disappears. Arellia nestles back into the crook of Father Phillippe's arm. Every fibre, every nerve in my Godsdamned body is telling me to run. Yet, my feet are rooted to the ground in fear.

“You needn’t be.” Father Phillippe says. “I assure you, when the Angels return, we will rebuild the world. One big nation, serving under the Faith.”

“Then I’ll say a prayer and wish you luck on your plans to save the world. Very heroic for a fanatic.”

Father Phillippe grins. “We cannot do it without you. Sacrifices must be made. We must bleed and the world must break before we rebuild. You play a crucial part.”

“Which part is that?”

“The sacrifice.”

Shit. “Use someone else. Leave me out of this.” I spit and continue my stride. Before I reach the door, I hear a clamour of voices and horse hooves from beyond the crumbling walls. I whip my head to the priest as he smiles.

“I’m afraid I cannot.”

My heart thunders. I inhale hard and burst through the wooden door in fury and halt as I am confronted with the bright afternoon sun blasting through broken windows. I take a moment to adjust. When I open my eyes, a dozen hollow-cheeked villagers—all huddled in a tight knot like a withered fist— stare up at me with dull eyes as they shrink into themselves, mumbling hushed prayers.

A loud blow of a horn startles me and the villagers in the room gasp. Through the splintered window shutters, I see them; an army of two dozen–maybe more–men clad in white and gold marching in steady rhythm over the rocky hill, carrying their gleaming banners of a three-headed python.

House Virtris has finally come to collect their beloved princess.

I grit my teeth as panic rises. I have no weapon, no means of transport. The horse I set free is now long gone and the machete… I don’t even remember what happened to it. I rub my eyes with my knuckles– now dry and crackly from old blood– and examine the small dusty room. No shelves, no furniture. Only tapestries and candles and incense.

There is nothing here I can use to defend myself. My only option is to run but there is nothing out there but rocks and sand. They will find me.

“There is nowhere for you to go, Dillon. Your place is with us.”

I move toward the window and watch as Vasilis’ men dismount from their horses, dropping heavily onto the sand causing flurries of dust to fly through the waving heat of the afternoon. A cluster of armoured men unfolds to stand in a thin line, facing this shabby hut.

Then I see him at the centre of their formation; the new king of Illya sits– tall and straight-backed– astride his horse, his white armour is spotless, his crown is bright in the light of the sun, snaking over his forehead and hair like a golden python. He holds the reins in one hand and with the other, he dabs his brow, just below the crown, with a square of linen.

The man who let me believe that freedom was within my grasp, the man who tortured and led me to war. Now he is here to use me as a sacrifice. He dismounts gracefully from his steed and barks orders at his men.

“And if I go with you? Will I die?” My fear is tangible. I cannot fight my way out of this.

“If the Gods will it.”

Vasilis stalks toward the hut, his gait is easy, careless. A soldier slams through the broken door, causing plumes of dust to fly through the air.

“Kneel before your king!” A sweaty man bellows as he unsheathes his sword. The villagers shuffle to their knees and press their foreheads against the floor.

“Sire!” They cry.

“Kneel before your king!” The man shouts again, veins protruding from his neck. I pay him no heed and hold my ground, eyes locked on Vasilis. He stands tall, hands behind his back, a devilish smirk across his face.

It doesn’t take long for his henchmen to storm in and kick me to my knees, holding both my shoulders tightly in their armoured gloves.

“It’s good to see you, mercenary.”

“Wish I could say the same.” Vasilis chuckles and turns his attention to the inner room.

“My king!” Father Phillippe saunters from the dark and bows slightly as he pulls Arellia from the shadows. “It was a success. We are ready.”

“Wonderful news, Father,” Vasilis says dryly as he examines his sister, eyes narrowing. He takes a step toward her. “How is my dear sister?”

For the first time since she woke, Arellia’s eyes shine with an emotion I have never seen. Her brows knit together as her lips tremble. “Brother,” She sobs. Vasilis lets loose a small breath and opens his arms like a parent would to an upset child. Arellia staggers into him and buries her face into his chest.

When she turns away from him to face me, small streams of tears run down her cheeks. She bites the corner of her lips and says, “Brother, who is this man?”