Neri’Va’s fingers trembled as she straightened the white linen robe across her shoulders, heart pounding beneath her ribs. Candlelight trembled on the bare walls of her little chamber, casting shifting halos as the hour of the cleansing ritual drew near. She ran her hands over the robe again, the cloth cool and fine beneath her skin, but nothing could still her thoughts.
Outside her door, the temple was alive with hushed preparations—the scrape of sandals on polished wood, the gentle slosh of water in brass basins, the scent of sacred oils swirling with incense. She heard voices, too: her fellow acolytes whispering prayers or words of encouragement, the calm directions of the priests. This was supposed to be a night of reflection, purity, hope. But in her chest, a storm raged.
Rayven’s face would not leave her mind: the midnight blue of her hair, the desperate longing in her glowing eyes, the final trembling grip of her hand at the well. Neri’Va pressed her palms to her eyes, fighting to master herself.
The high elf tried to still her mind, but Rayven’s voice haunted her: Run away with me…
You have to choose…
She had chosen duty—hadn’t she? She had chosen the path laid out for her since childhood, yet why did every step feel heavier now, as if she were walking into shadow?
For a moment, she pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the flutter of her heart. She wondered if she’d always carry this ache, this longing for another life. She turned to the tiny mirror above her washbasin and stared at her own reflection: pale face, purple eyes shining with fear and exhaustion. She did not look like someone about to be blessed. She looked like someone about to be broken.
A knock at the door startled her. “Neri’Va! They’re gathering!” came a novice’s urgent whisper.
“I’m coming,” she called back, voice unsteady.
She moved quickly through the corridor, trailing her fingers along the worn rail. The murals of Quintra seemed to watch her with stern, knowing eyes. In the alcove by the stairs, an old priest mumbled a blessing over a tray of sacred oils. Neri’Va paused, breathing in the fragrance of rosemary and myrrh. Let me be strong… just one more night…
The great hall was awash in golden light. Dozens of candles burned in the massive iron chandelier overhead, casting shifting patterns on the vaulted ceiling. At the far end, the altar gleamed—white marble inlaid with gold and turquoise, the sigil of Quintra shining at its heart. The stained-glass window behind it blazed with evening colour: blues and violets, the figure of the goddess of Light, radiant and proud, standing with her arms open..
Acolytes in white filed silently into their places, robes whispering over the polished wooden floor. Priests moved among them, anointing brows with oil, murmuring the ancient blessings. “Be cleansed in the Light… Be made whole for the day to come…”
Neri’Va knelt, bowing her head as a gentle hand touched her brow. She tried to focus on the ritual—the feel of sacred water on her skin, the hush of prayers—but her mind spun in dizzy circles. She watched as the high priest moved from novice to novice, pausing over each one. She glimpsed the proud faces of her fellow acolytes, some smiling, others trembling with nerves.
Do they feel it too? she wondered. This sense of something ending?
The cleansing began in earnest. Each acolyte, in turn, rose to light a candle and place it at the altar. When Neri’Va’s turn came, she felt her knees wobble as she climbed the shallow steps. The candle trembled in her hands. She set it among the others, whispering, “Quintra, guide me.” The words felt small in the cavernous hall.
A hymn began, voices threading together in a gentle braid of sound.
Light before us, Light behind us, Light within us…
The words should have calmed her. Instead, Neri’Va’s eyes flicked to the great doors. She saw the guards posted there—two strong men in ceremonial armour, hands on their spears.
But the feeling of unease wouldn’t leave her.
She drifted back to her place, kneeling beside two younger novices, Talis and Myrra. Talis’s hand found hers, squeezing tight. “You’ll be a priestess tomorrow,” he whispered, awe and worry mingling in his tone.
“Only if I make it through tonight,” Neri’Va said, trying for humour. Myrra gave her a nervous smile.
The high priest stepped forward, raising his hands. “This is the time for silent prayer. Offer your fears and your hopes to the Light. Quintra listens.”
Heads bowed. For a brief moment, there was peace. The world seemed to shrink to the sound of heartbeats and the flicker of flame.
A heavy boom split the stillness.
The guards at the doors shouted in alarm. Wood splintered, hinges tore free, and the doors exploded inward in a hail of debris. Cloaked and masked figures surged through, their boots thudding on the floor. Without a second thought or glimpse of hesitation they struck down the two guards at the door before they could even reach for their swords. Blue fire danced along their blades, casting unnatural shadows on the walls.
Chaos erupted.
The first priest to rise was cut down where he stood, the blue blade slicing through his robes. Another tried to call the Light, raising his staff, but the attackers swept his feet from under him and kicked him hard in the ribs, blade trusting down without mercy. Screams shattered the order of prayer.
Neri’Va was already moving, heart hammering. “Talis, Myrra—go!” She shoved the younger novices toward a side door, only to see two Denday followers block their path. The novices shrank back, whimpering. Neri’Va grabbed a heavy brass candlestick from a nearby sconce and hurled it at the nearest attacker. It struck him in the arm. “Run!” she cried. The Myrra bolted for a storage alcove, vanishing from sight.
Blue fire swept across the altar, curling up the columns, making the gold gleam eerily. The Denday followers fanned out, herding the priests and acolytes into the centre of the hall. A priest tried to cast a shield of Light, chanting desperately—but the magic flickered and died. One of the attackers laughed, striking him down with a sweep of her staff.
Neri’Va ducked behind a pew, her heart pounding in her throat. She could see the high priest trying to gather the youngest novices behind him, arms outstretched. An old woman fell, clutching her leg, and Neri’Va crawled to her side. “Hold on,” she whispered, pressing her hands to the wound. “You’ll be all right.”
A masked follower loomed over them, swinging a staff. Neri’Va pushed the old woman aside, taking the brunt of the blow on her shoulder. Pain exploded down her arm. She bit back a scream, forcing herself to her knees. The follower shoved her to the ground, hissing, “Stay down, little Lightbringer.”
All around her, people were crying, praying, begging for mercy. The attackers showed none. They smashed sacred vessels, overturned benches, tore the altar cloth. Someone flung a torch; flames licked at the tapestries, smoke stinging eyes and throats.
Neri’Va crawled toward the altar. She tried to call the Light, whispering desperate prayers, but nothing happened. It was as if a door had slammed shut in her soul.
Suddenly, she heard Talis’s voice—shrill, terrified—“Neri’Va! Help!” She looked back and saw the girl pinned under a fallen bench, a masked man standing over her with a raised blade. Neri’Va forced herself up, staggered across the floor, and hurled herself at the man’s legs. He stumbled, cursing, and Talis wriggled free, sprinting toward the side door.
Neri’Va collapsed on the stone, gasping, her vision swimming. The man struck her hard in the side with his blade. “No Light for you tonight, little priestess,” he spat, kicking her aside. Agony exploded through her. She curled on her side, breath coming in short, ragged sobs. She pressed her hand to her side feeling, blood seeping through her white robe.
The chanting of the Denday followers grew louder, more frenzied. A tall figure in a wolf mask mounted the altar, arms raised high. Blue fire coiled around her, snaking up the columns, licking at the stained glass.
“Tonight, we inflict upon you what you have inflicted upon us!” the leader roared. “Tonight, we will banish the Light!”
Acolytes and priests were forced to their knees before the altar, wrists bound with leather thongs. Neri’Va was hauled upright, dragged by her hair, and shoved down beside the others. Blood trickled down her side, pooling on the polished floor.
She stared up at the altar, seeing the reflection of flames dance across Quintra’s image. The wolf-masked leader chanted in a harsh, guttural tongue, and a shudder seemed to pass through the hall. The blue fire blazed, then dimmed, and a deep rumble shook the temple.
The Denday followers hurled a torch at the great window, shattering it into a cascade of coloured shards. The image of Quintra fractured, the goddess’s face dissolving into pieces that rained down over the wounded and weeping.
At that moment, Neri’Va felt it—the severing of her connection to the Light. Where once there was a golden thread of comfort, now there was only cold, empty darkness. She tried to whisper a prayer, but the words died on her lips.
All around her, people wept or stared in numb disbelief. The attackers finished their ritual, then spat at the survivors, jeering as they retreated. The sound of their boots faded, leaving the hall in shambles.
Neri’Va tried to move, to crawl toward the altar. Her hands slipped in her own blood. Her body refused to answer her will. She collapsed, sprawled on the cold stone, staring up at the shattered window and the moon outside, now wreathed in cloud.
The world spun. Distant voices called her name—Talis, Myrra, others she could not see. She wanted to answer, but her strength was gone.
She clung to Rayven’s memory—her warmth, her fierce love, her promise of another world. She was still alive, still conscious, but every breath was a battle.
Quintra… help me… Rayven… forgive me…
As the last light faded from the ruined hall, Neri’Va drifted at the edge of consciousness, waiting for someone to find her—or for the darkness to claim her at last.