Of Soul and Spirit

Prologue

At last, a five-day journey had ended. As the sun drifted above the horizon, shadows yawned against cobblestone streets. A gentle breeze whispered through, travelling the fragrance of rainfall on dry soil mixed with dying embers. Liliath let the waves of serenity wash over her, and tried to drown out the stench of rotting flesh.

What was once the prosperous village of Caelburn now lay in smouldering ruins; strewn with the bodies of people who had laughed, sang and played on the very streets that were now destroyed.

Snaking through the desolation, a sombre procession of twenty advanced in single-filed silence, their footfalls muted by the ash that blanketed the ground. Each step led them deeper into a nightmare, past remnants of homes now reduced to charred skeletons. From the line, a gasp pierced the heavy quiet—jutting out of a pile of rubble, a small hand, limply clinging to a well-worn doll. No one had been spared.

Liliath tugged at her black velvet cape—an expensive piece of finery gifted to her by her queen mother—as it gathered ash and entrails with every step. Had she known that she would be welcomed to Caelburn by corpses instead of a familiar, warm embrace, she might have dressed for the occasion.

Focus, she scolded herself, equal parts horrified at the unfolding scene around her, and annoyed at the new stains on her clothing.

The line approached what should have been a bustling marketplace and halted at the signal of their leader. A figure, its shape and identity masked by a thick black cloak, emerged. The Black Priest of Oriath. Liliath marvelled as the sun struck every gemstone that lined the three peaks atop Their crown. A veil of sheer black lace cascaded from the tips to the ground, concealing the features of the wearer; a shield to protect Their anonymity, for the Black Priests are but instruments of the divine, Their individuality subsumed by the greater purpose They serve.

Liliath stood firm, defiant against the quiver in her hands, amongst a group of men and women who towered over her as they listened to the shallow voice of the Black Priest sweep over them.

O Bielle the Deathless, hear our prayer as we gather here today.
We beg you accept these Souls as retribution for your unyielding mercy.
We beg you guide these Spirits to their rightful place in the eternal cycle.
We beg you gift them peace and solace in your divine embrace.
We offer our reverence and gratitude to you, Goddess Bielle.
So be it.

The Black Priest breathed the last of Their prayer into the early-morning air, and the gathering was once again plunged into a desperate silence. Liliath felt the weight of tension settle over her like a shroud. Around her, she heard whispers of treachery and war. Words that she thought existed in history books, not in the village she often visited as a child.

Aleric, his stature a little taller and broader than the rest, stood forward, his brow furrowed in determined contemplation. His voice, though low, cut through the heavy air like a blade.

"Something isn’t right..."

Liliath's attention snapped to her brother. She watched as he surveyed the wreckage surrounding them, desperation for an answer pulling his sight frantically from one pile of debris to another. In his cold, brown eyes—a reflection of her own—Liliath sensed his heartbreak and anguish. This quest to escort the Black Priest marked his first princely undertaking since coming of age at eighteen years old, and as heir to the throne, the discovery of Caelburn in this state placed an unbearable weight upon his shoulders.

“Caelburn was a village of at least five thousand," he continued, his voice gaining strength. “We have passed through much of the wreckage, and there cannot possibly be more than one hundred fallen here. The scale of destruction does not give me hope that there were survivors, nor that whoever perpetrated this… insult to the Gods”—he spat the words out with the vitriol of a thousand scorned lovers—“meant for there to be survivors. What happened here?”

“Still yourself, my prince.” An armoured hand landed on Aleric’s shoulder. “It is true. We have not seen anything like this for hundreds of years, but we must keep our composure.

“Take Liliath, and go with the Black Priest. They will need to check on the cathedral. The rest of us will sift through the wreckage.” Sinarius said, his eyes scanning around. With a shake of his head, he gestured towards the rest of the group, and they peeled away.

Liliath fell into step beside her brother, who followed in the fluid footsteps of the Black Priest. As they walked in silence, she reflected on what had brought her here. They had arrived by boat down Erhod river, after five days' travel northbound from the capital city, Oriath. Their original mission had been to escort the Black Priest of Oriath to Caelburn—a duty trusted only to people of high status, for none were more revered in all the kingdoms of Nystrel than a Black Priest. For her brother Aleric, this was the ultimate test of his reliability, but for Liliath, this was a step in her training as a healer.

She had been excited to pay a visit to Caelburn—it had once been a quaint yet bustling village, teeming with free-spirited and full-bellied people. Liliath and her brothers had made many trips to the village throughout their childhood, to visit the noble Manster family who resided there—Liliath dare not think about their fate in the midst of the ruins. As a healer, it was her duty to love and care for all life equally.

As Liliath’s thoughts danced along in reminiscence, an inhuman scream ripped her back to reality. Immediately her sight fell upon the Black Priest, who had fallen to Their knees at the crumbled steps of the village cathedral. The entirety of the old stone building now lay in ruin. Liliath’s breath caught in her throat. The destruction of a cathedral was a grievous crime in the lands of Nystrel—second only to the murder of a Black Priest. Whoever had orchestrated this had not only made an enemy of the kingdom of Sintel, but of Bielle Herself.