Alek dug her nails deep into the cured leather seat Nyxus unceremoniously strapped her to. Her hands, which carved lines in the hide between her knees, had held together with a strong rope, while her torso had been held up tight to the back of the chair with a thick strip of a fabric she couldn’t quite recognise. Whatever it was, it dug into her chest and crushed her ribs. At least she believed it was, but it might have been the panic coursing through her veins.

Nyxus, the head priest of the Temple of Omera, sat opposite her in the metal casket that sped down the dirt roads. It was worse than dying, and she was sure she had that experience. That she had truly died in the forest. She could feel every rock and bump in the road, jostling her about. A low, desperate whine grew at the back of her throat as they sped over a particularly uneven stretch of road.

“Cooper, you will sit quietly,” barked Nyxus, whose gaze never left the thick, yellowed book he was reading. Alek ceased her whining, instead worrying at her lip till she tasted blood. Nyxus sighed and slammed his book shut, staring up at her with glossy grey eyes. “Now, little lion cub, would it help for you to explain the circumstance I found you in?”

Alek opened her mouth to answer but closed it just as fast. She shook her head frantically in response. Nyxus looked displeased, placing his book to one side and leaning forward the best he could with the chair strap around his torso.

“I will not ask again,” he said, voice deep and threatening. The same tone used when she’d get locked in a closet or given lashes for stepping out of line.

Despite him not truly asking her to explain, she knew it wasn’t a choice she could make. With a stuttering breath, an attempt to calm the storm within her, she answered.

“I just wanted to come home.” Alek winced at how meek she sounded, her voice soft and quivering. She was as Nyxus had said - the Lion of the Temple, whatever the hell that meant. Alek had to be better than this, yet as always she became no more than a child in his presence. She had only met him officially three times in her life, first when she came to the Temple, second when she was accepted into Stykes Academy at sixteen, and now; when he had to bail her out of prison.

“Of course you did,” nodded Nyxus, “you’re still a mewling child, after all.”

Alek wanted to argue back but bit her tongue. She wanted his approval, after all. This was the man who ran the Temple, this was the man that took her in when her own family refused. He was her family.

Her mind had drifted back to life at the Temple. Grey stone walls, soft purple velvet, and more importantly home. It was more her home than her small, isolated dorm room was by a landslide. The barracks and their abundance of tired bodies were a comfort she couldn’t find in the Academy. Now that she had nothing else to focus on, she couldn’t put her homesickness to one side. She knew that this was just a daydream, but she couldn’t bear to stop. That would mean not seeing her people for another undetermined amount of time.

The main hall was almost empty as usual, with only priests milling about with their books and scrolls. Alek found herself in the centre of the aisle in between mahogany pews, the marble cold under her feet. She glimpsed herself in one of the mirrors that lined the walls. Alek was younger, unscarred and unweathered by time. She remembered this day. She was eight, nothing more than a snivelling child. Then ten, toddlers hanging from her small body.

Then Alek was sixteen again, a hopeful youth who hadn’t seen the hardships of life yet. Not truly. No scars, two legs, and a mind free of thunderclouds and doubt. She’d trade her future for a chance to try again, to be better this time around. If she had known what was going to happen to her, she’d never had accepted the offer.

“Ah, Aleksilkandrin, our lion cub,” Nyxus had said, her name a rare sign of respect from the elder. He had looked none different from what he had now. He had been a rotund, shrivelled old man since Alek could remember. It had been the second time she had ever spoken to the man, but she had seen him overseeing the Temple staff often enough while growing up.

She never understood why she was hailed as the lion cub. It had been that way since she had joined the Temple. It hadn’t anything to do with the Alek family, the ones who sold her, she had known that much, but its origin was unclear. It was easier to not question the higher-ups, and ‘lion cub’ had been one of the nicer nicknames issued by the Temple staff.

She dipped into a low bow; it was ingrained into her muscle memory by now, ninety-degree angle and face pointing to the floor, holding it for a few seconds before straightening back out. It was a trait that had slowly been ironed out from her in the Academy - it made her stand out for the Templar she was - but seeing herself as the child she had triggered something within her.

“Nyxus, sir,” she nodded, back straight and shoulders back, her pauldrons bobbing with the movement. “You asked to see me?”

“They have accepted you into Stykes Academy, congratulations,” he nodded, his voice almost monotonous, hiding any sign of the approval that Alek had craved. It was back in a time when she had pegged all her worth based on what the adults around her thought. Not much had changed, really, except that it had hurt a little when it wasn’t given as freely as she’d seen other families give.

Later that day she’d find herself in the Temple gardens, tending to her duties as the guardian to the younger members of her unit. Daniels and Alistair had got into yet another fight over some forgetful nonsense, Mayburn and Rhydderch were ripping up the grounds once more. A simpler life. One she took for granted, despite everything.

Alek had snapped back to reality, Nyxus staring at her expectantly. It was then that Alek realised that he must have asked her a question. She stared back with wide eyes. Nyxus stared back, eyes unblinking as if trying to drain the answers from her. Alek pressed her mouth into a thin line. Nyxus sighed.

“Pay attention, cub.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“As I was saying, we’re here.”

‘Here’ turned out to be an ivory-coloured building with iron gates and stone lions standing guard. Lush gardens with an abundance of fresh flowers and exotic plants surround the property. Hanging above the door was a shield, presumably made from sabrian as it reflected a rainbow similar to how oil looks in water and hadn’t given into the harsh weather. The shield itself was adorned with metal thorns around its edge, and a copper lion’s head snarling at those who come near.

Nyxus unlatched Alek from the unholy contraption that kept her stuck to the seat. Whatever had come over her in her cell had subsided, for now, curling back into the deeper parts of her brain still very much there. Instead, it was replaced with the fluttering feeling of dull excitement blooming deep within her chest. She could finally go home, yet the feeling rang hollow. As much as she longed to return, could she really show her face the way she was now? When she did not know what was even happening to her? She was still certain that she had died, that there was no way of surviving an attack the way she had. Yet she was still alive, spared by Omera. Her life must have meant something, even if it came back to her continuing on with her duties as a Templar.

The inside of the manor was just as grand, if not more so. The red and gold wallpaper had a velvety texture as Alek ran her fingers across it, stopping to run her hand over it properly with a look of wonder decorating her face. Nyxus flashed her a frustrated look, and she snatched her hand away, keeping it at her side and rolling her calloused fingertips together, chasing the feeling. The floor was a soft carpet that her feet sank into, and she turned her attention to that instead. The sensation was like walking through light snow without the chill or the crunch. It was a marvel to her that she was allowed to stay in such luxury, after being raised within hardwood and marble. Even the academy hadn’t been as nice; scratchy carpet and chipboard walls filled her dorm, and the constant smell of smoke permeated the air.

She was led through the grand hallway, past an elegant dining room that she couldn’t help but poke her head around the door frame to catch a glance, but still they didn’t stop. Each of the rooms she had passed felt grander than the last, each outdoing the other in style and content. At last, Nyxus had stopped to unlock a door, taking his time rattling the key in its hole. Alek could barely stand still with the enthusiasm and interest of seeing what other wonders could be unveiled. The door swung open with a loud creak to reveal -

A narrow storage room.

There stood the armour she wore as a Templar. She assumed that she’d be getting another set, of course, since hers had been damaged and sold, but what stood in the narrow space was her armour. Damaged, worn, and unusable would be some kinder words Alek would say. The metal had warped and stuck out in places, even curling in some places like tiny daggers ready to bite at her flesh. Fabric that had once been long, purple and majestic, that held the sigil of her Goddess had torn. What hadn’t completely ripped away was stained with the dark colour of her own blood. The breastplate was nowhere near the shape it was supposed to be, now concave and dull without the typical sabrian shine.

“Uh, sir? Where did you find this?” she squeaked out.

“Would you care to explain why I had to buy it back from pirates?” he spat back, Alek flinched and crumpled in on herself involuntarily, “put it on, it’s yours after all.”

“Sir?”

“Put it on, cub.”

Alek hesitated, eyeing the armour wearily but relented, going into the small room and shutting the door behind her willing Nyxus to not lock it behind her. She fiddled for the light switch, her hands finally finding a cord that she pulled only for the bulb overhead to give off a dim light that was barely there. Slowly she tugged on her armour, wincing as she buckled the straps firm over her form. The warped plating made it far harder to set, and the sharp bits that folded in made her cautious, but she knew she had to suit up as correctly as she could. She could afford to make it tighter on her false leg - after all, it was only wood under there. Still, she could feel the plating of her breastplate slice her stomach and graze her wounds that hadn’t completely healed over. She sucked in a sharp breath and slowly exhaled, steeling herself for what came next; opening the door.

Each step dug into her thighs and cut into her skin. The weight was different now than it ever was, disproportionate and causing her to lean heavily to the left. Her stomach rolled with the sharp pangs of pain with each small movement. Nyxus seemed pleased, a small smile tugging at his thin lips but gave no other reaction. It was a sight that rattled her to her core, sickening her. He watched her shuffle forward, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder to straighten the stance that sent a wave of white-hot pain through her side causing her vision to blur and blacken briefly before coming to further down the hallway than she was before. Whether she had actually walked those metres or got dragged, she wasn’t sure.

Her mind swam between consciousness and darkness, drifting between the two states as frequently as the tide laps the sand. Her throat felt tight and dry, her breath coming in sharp pants. She was in a different part of the manor now, where exactly she wasn’t sure. Black-and-white chequered tile clicked under her armoured feet, scraping as she dragged her heels as he tugged her along. She knew very little of chess, but couldn’t help but feel its irony as if she was a knight being led to the slaughter.

They came to a stop in what seemed to be a pantry; or was a pantry, at least, the shelves were mostly empty besides from a thick mass of cobwebs and dust. Whoever owned the manor couldn’t have used this part much, if at all. A large wooden door stood before her, its face decorated in faded gold flowers. Nyxus pulled out a thick metal key from his robes, pressing it into the lock and forcefully unlocking it.

Stairs descended into darkness, its bottom unfathomable. Nyxus ushered her towards them, the stench of dampness, unwashed bodies and an underlining tone of iron that sparked something in the back of her brain. She reluctantly lowered herself down the first step - using her real leg, not trusting what her prosthetic would do on stairs when she could not supervise it properly. The movement shook her to her core, her armour jerking and cutting further into her skin. She felt a warm, languid wetness trickle down her stomach, even more so than it had been. She continued down, fumbling for a handrail that wasn’t there, stumbling forward before catching herself against the brought brick of the wall. Halfway down, she felt her foot slip on the slick wooden steps. She tumbled forwards, unable to catch herself. Her shoulders bounced off the wood as she rolled, bile rising in her throat.

She awoke at the bottom, which she noted was becoming an increasing problem in her life. If she had died yet again, it was only a small mercy that she still drew breath. Omera wasn’t finished with her pawn just yet, and Alek feared that her duty still bound her despite all that’s happened. There, crammed against the wall at the bottom of the staircase, she could only wish for death to ease her pain.

She rolled onto her back with a groan, her armour barely holding together. She would have laughed if she could get enough air back into her crushed lungs. Sabrian had always been the toughest metal on Kirus, but one creature of dark magic and a staircase had been enough to break it. Pathetic. Much like how she felt. She forced her broken body to comply as she sat up, groaning and leaking, tearing at the metal that had once protected her but had failed the two times she had truly needed it. It didn’t save her life then, and it wouldn’t now.

“So, you’re awake then,” came a low, gravelly voice of a man behind her. She couldn’t get a good look, her back burning and splitting further as she tried to turn. She couldn’t help the undignified whimpers that escaped her mouth. A dry sound like the crackling of wood underfoot that may have been a laugh or a cough emanated from behind her, “it’s good to see you alive, cub.”

“I still don’t even know what that means.”

The man hummed in thought or disbelief but spoke no further. Alek heaved herself onto her knees with great effort, skin splitting and blood flowing freely down her stomach, warm and wet. Her mind was a haze, vision blurred. If she were to die, she prayed to Omera to make it quick. Slowly turning towards the voice, she let herself fall again, wheezing as her arms refused to hold her up.

The man in front of her was barely in better shape than her. His hands were brown with dried blood, his trousers were torn, and the bare flesh of his chest covered in thin slices that were barely visible in the dim lighting of the basement. His face, dirty and tired, was familiar to Alek. Godfrey Rutherford, the man who had protected Alek since she joined the Temple, the man who practically raised her. A legend amongst the younger Templars, even the priests had taken a shine to him. It was said that he had killed a wyvern on his first quest at seventeen, but whether that was true, Alek did not know. She believed it was true. She believed in him.

“You’re a mess, Aleksilkandrin,” he noted, standing up on shaky legs and approaching her as she lay face down on the cold cobblestone ground, “let me tend to your wounds, you won’t last down here”

“Don’t touch me,” she snarled, “I can’t promise what I’ll do.”

“But you’ll die-”

“Then let me.”

Her words hung in the air, Rutherford paused before kneeling before her at a short distance, head bowed as if he was dealing with a rabid dog rather than the broken body before him.

“Nyxus speaks highly of you, you know,” his flat voice tinged with sadness and maybe regret, “how you’ll lead our Temple to greatness. That was me, once. I know how he can be. It’s not an honour.”

“I never wanted this”

“You can’t uncarve stone, but you can still make something good of it. The marks that once moulded you will chip away in time, and you can start anew.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means that they forced you into this life, like many others, but you can still change it. If, that is, you survive the night. Now, will you let me help you?”

Alek gave a weak nod and Rutherford cautiously approached, hands shaking as he undid the straps of her armour. He carefully pulled the metal out from her skin, ripping its cloth to use as bandages, caring for her the best he could in such circumstances. She whimpered and held herself back from lashing out from the agony. Rutherford, to his credit, talked her through it, sharing anecdotes and stories from his time outside of the Temple. Alek noted that everything he said had been recurring stories he’d share while they had been growing up. A slight comfort to them both, at least to her.

Alek sat up against the wall, hand pressed over her stomach wound, which had since stopped bleeding. Rutherford watched her with a curious gaze, his dark brown hair falling in his face. What a state they both must seem. Two Templars of Omera, covered in their own blood and stuck in what appeared to be a wine cellar in a country that was no longer theirs. Rutherford came from the town of Northbridge in the south of Adanak and had lived through similar circumstances to Alek. It had been the reason they had grown to trust one another.

“What did you mean earlier,” she started, stopping to wet her lips with her tongue, “when you said that you were once the one to bring our Temple to greatness?”

Rutherford sighed, the sound rattling around in his lungs like cans in the wind. He glanced away, finding the ground far more interesting than holding eye contact.

“They thought I was special,” he shrugged, the movement causing him to wince, “all because of my so-called bloodline, but I got tossed aside because of my lack of magic.”

“I’m no mage either, and they haven’t given up on me yet.”

“Because they still have hope that you’re not another red herring, that you’re the descendent of house Valcari. Bullshit, the lot of it. You had the right idea of running away while you still could.”

“I didn’t run away,” grumbled Alek, “I was coming back! I need to go back to Kingshill, it’s my duty.”

“Then you’re a bloody idiot, Alek. Just hope that you’re not the lion they think you are.”

“I’m…I can’t be, I’m nobody without my training. You know this, you know me!”

“And yet, the Temple took an interest in you. Paid a hefty sum to get you off of your father’s hands.”

Alek stopped, considering. It was true, however, her family could not have royal blood, shunned or not. The little she remembered of her mother’s family, the name she was stripped of years prior, they were merchants, the lot of them. And yet, with their lack of making ends meet, it was her father’s name that was placed upon her. The seller’s mark. She had never met that side of the family, or if she had, she didn’t know who they were. The name meant nothing but to bind her to the Temple, and it worked. Worked far too well, for she was Cooper, captain of the twelfth, back under the boot of her faith.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but the door to the cellar had opened only for Nyxus to throw a loaf of bread down at his two captives. Alek winced as it hit her in the chest, hard and stale. She let out a shaky breath that carried a small groan, eyes shut and head pressed against the wall as she tried to ground herself. She opened them again to find Rutherford’s own staring hungrily back. The bread torn in two with an ache in her shoulders and tossed a half at the older man that had been so kind as to not watch her die. Rutherford - Godfrey, as he had insisted she called him now, tore into the hard bread immediately. Alek tried to do the same, but as the bread came up just as quickly as it had hit her empty stomach, acid burning her tongue. She tossed the rest of the loaf at Godfrey, who caught it with a concerned look.

“You’re not going to eat?” he asked softly, eyeing her carefully.

Something clicked in Alek’s mind. A horrible realisation that she should have had long ago. “I don’t think it’s food I need.”

“Oh?”

“Whatever happened to me in the Ironwood Forest… I don’t think I’m quite human any more.”

Somehow, the revelation did not phase Godfrey. In fact, it seemed to solidify something he had been thinking.

“Nyxus had mentioned it, I didn’t think it could be true.”

“Nyxus knows?” she demanded, “what did he tell you?”

“That you’re blessed by our Goddess. A creature of the night.”

Of course, she found it strange that she hungered for more than food, that she lashed out in ways that resulted in death but was never present for the act. She never thought it would be like this. Unfortunately, it made sense. It all added up to that one conclusion. She was… a cryptling? A tick? A leech of the night?

“Omera, what the fuck,” she said under her breath, “what the fuck is happening?”

“Why did you think I was here? For fun?” he let out a humourless laugh, “they were going to make me Silent, you know. The both of us. But of course they found something special in you, bloodline or not.”

“They shunned you,” she noted with unease until she remembered she was surely far worse than her father figure. It was no small feat to become a Silent Sibling. To the outside world, they were simply priests that had taken an oath of silence far too seriously, but within the Temple, they were a warning. A warning to stay in line, a warning to watch your tongue. Not even deserters had the treatment. To be silent, was to break the law of the Temple, of Mabristan. To have your lips sewn shut, or your tongue removed, was a lesson to the others. “what did you do?”

“It doesn’t matter now. This is my punishment,” he hissed, “and I think we’ve waited long enough.”

“But-”

“You know Nyxus will not let us both leave here alive. I’ve made my peace with it. It’s okay, Aleksilkandrin,” Godfrey’s chapped lips trembled into a soft smile, body relaxing into a defeated slouch. Only one could leave, and Alek doubted Nyxus would want anyone but her. After all, he had faced the seas and scoured Adanak for her, and her alone. “you’re only doing what comes naturally. None of this is your fault.”

Godfrey offered out his arm, leaning forward slightly with a look of tired acceptance. Once again the man she knew, no longer the rook. No longer a pawn of the Temple. Alek swallowed hard, shifting, crawling over, her muscles aching and her wounds threatening to reopen on the brief notice. Bile rose again in her throat as a sharp pain cut through her body, both real and the phantom that had haunted her since she had woken up in her own grave.

She gently cupped his wrist with her teeth, steeling herself for what was to come with tears threatening to fall. Doing this while awake was a stranger experience entirely.

She shut her eyes tight and bit down into the pulsing vein.