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A Thousand Year Voyage- chapter 27
🕑 Added 2025-07-29 20:29:02 +0000 UTCThe Sea Tower, the artificial island built by the Lunar Conspectus upon the waters near Oldtown, was at peace. The night was clear and quiet, the sea smooth as polished obsidian.
The Lunar Conspectus—founded by sorcerers whose work naturally revolved around the study of stars, moons, and celestial movements—was primarily nocturnal. And so its halls were alive now, the sounds of research and experiments carried by the air, members walking with purpose from one point to another.
Near the summit of the Sea Tower’s central spire, a wide platform extended outward into the night—roofless, unguarded, and forged from a single slab of pale stone. Two high-backed chairs, with a small table between them, were set at its edge, positioned for an unbroken view of the water.
In them lounged a pair of figures, relaxed in posture. Steam curled from the porcelain teacups in their hands, the brew within kept perpetually warm by silent enchantment. Their ceremonial stone masks—blank, impassive, and almost human-like—lay discarded on the floor beside them, the ceremony abandoned in favor of comfort.
Behind them squatted a forgotten weapon of war: the Moonfall Array. It was a magical machine of brass and crystal, capable of unleashing barrages of magical projectiles from the sky. Once so often used to destroy the invading armies, it was now covered with dust, the mechanisms stiff with disuse. On either side of the machine, a pair of precision lanterns rested—artifacts designed to project beams of light across long distances. Other instruments stood nearby as well, all silent and neglected.
The two Lunar Conspectus sorcerers—Art and Gallena—were supposedly stationed on the platform to monitor the island’s surroundings and, if needed, activate the Moonfall Array. But given the peaceful tranquillity of the region they were in, their duties had gradually given way to a quiet routine: drinking tea, watching the waves and gossiping about the other members of the Conspectus.
“So, do you really think Talia really went south just to study water sorceries?” Art asked, his voice casual as he swirled the tea in his cup.
Gallena glanced sideways at him, one brow arched. “That is the official explanation. And a sound one. You know as well as I do how embarrassingly limited our grasp of water manipulation is.”
Art made a languid gesture, dismissing her words with a flick of his fingers. “Sure, sure—the reasoning is sound. But consider this: a long balloon ride, a region apparently known for the sun and wine, her only company a much younger, exotic apprentice?” He raised a brow and smirked. “Sounds more like a romantic vacation than a research mission.”
Gallena sipped her tea unhurriedly. “Even if it is, so what? She raised our Conspectus from nothing. If anyone’s earned a little indulgence with a pretty sidepiece, it’s her.” Then, she glanced over her cup at him, lips twitching. “Or are you jealous?”
“Please.” Art scoffed, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated offense. “You know full well I’m over the moon only for yo—hmm?”
He trailed off, brow furrowing as he leaned forward slightly, peering past the edge of the platform toward the sea. There was something on the water—low and clustered, distant shapes bobbing in the waves.
Gallena followed his gaze and, without a word, she reached for one of the telescopes that rested between them on the table. She adjusted the lens with practiced precision and frowned.
“Art,” she murmured, her tone bewildered. “Take a look at this.”
He lifted his own telescope and pressed it to his eye. What he saw made him raise his eyebrows as well.
Out on the water, illuminated by the moon, small boats drifted in a loose formation—twenty or so of them, if they were to count. They were clunky, crudely built, packed to their limits with huddled figures pressed shoulder to shoulder. The boats bore no lanterns to guide their path, nor any flags that could help identify them. Slowly, as they were packed with more people than strictly allowed, the rowboats were sailing in the island’s rough direction, their intent unknown.
“Are they… fishermen?” Art asked, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew it likely wasn’t the case.
Gallena shook her head slowly, her eye still fixed to the telescope. “Of course not. Fishermen don’t go out in boats this overloaded. Certainly not at night, with no source of light.”
“Refugees, then?” he offered after a moment. “Trying to reach the island unseen? Maybe they angered the local lord and think we’ll shelter them?”
Gallena didn’t respond immediately. She leaned back in her chair. “Maybe. If the land routes are closed and they’re desperate enough. Still…” Her voice lowered. “Choosing us of all people? It can turn very problematic.”
Art sighed, lowering the telescope. “True, we’re technically just guests here. And Lord Hadwyn’s made nice with the Hightowers, so the last thing we need is to accidentally cause some diplomatic incident.”
The idea that the boats might hold an attacking force didn’t even enter their minds. No self-respecting enemy would travel so conspicuously, in unarmed rowboats, straight into the heart of the sorcerer island in the middle of the night, when the sorcerers would be most active.
Gallena’s expression grew resigned. “I guess we should send the word to Arthur. Stupid bastard was put in charge while Talia is gone, so he should be the one to deal with this.”
She pulled out a strip of parchment and quickly scribbled a message, short and clipped: “Twenty rowboats approaching island. Possibly refugees. Move your arse here.”
With a quick breath and a muttered incantation, she flicked her fingers. The parchment folded in on itself, curling into the shape of a delicate paper bird. It gave off a faint glow before launching itself into the night sky, veering down toward the lower tower, where Arthur resided.
With nothing left to do but wait, the sorcerers turned their eyes to the water.
For a while, the boats had drifted with quiet precision, holding formation across the moonlit waters. The few fishermen among them—seasoned hands guiding the oars—managed to maintain a semblance of order, keeping the overloaded vessels steady. But when a cluster of stray clouds swept across the moon, plunging the sea into darkness, and the breeze picked up just enough to rock the tide, the chaos began.
Visibility dwindled. The subtle hand-signals lost their effectiveness as shapes blurred in the gloom. Boats veered too far to the side, uncertain of their neighbours. Eventually, one cut in too close to another, a dull thud breaking the hush as two boats collided.
Already packed far beyond what was safe, the passengers surged like grain in a jar, thrown off balance. Someone shouted. Someone else slipped. The wooden hulls groaned—and both boats tipped, spilling people into the cold black sea.
What followed was the sight of limbs flailing and the sound of horrified screams tearing through the air. While some of the people in the water could swim, mostly the fishermen steering them with few additions, most couldn’t. People began to drown in mass, their screams soon covered by the cold water.
Those in the other boats, hearing the distant cries but unable to see clearly through the dark, assumed the worst—they had been attacked, the foul sorcerers already casting their spells.
The response was chaotic.
Oars slapped the sea like panicked wings, the rhythmic unity the boats once clung to vanishing in an instant. Coordination collapsed. Panic, raw and blundering, swept through the group of boats like lightning across dry grass. The overloaded vessels, already trembling under their own weight, rocked with violent, arrhythmic motion.
One by one, the boats began to tip—first gently, then violently—until they capsized outright, spilling men. Screams filled the air, curses quickly turning to gurgles. The sea, as if stirred awake, opened wide its arms. It devoured them eagerly, churning black water into froth and dragging the screaming down.
When the moon, veiled for so long by passing clouds, finally broke free and cast its ghostly gaze upon the scene, it revealed a tableau of scattered boats: half of them were overturned. Half were bleeding survivors, men falling from the rocking vessels with the rest of the crew unwilling to stop to save them.
The remaining boats, maybe half of them, were now cutting through the waves at a frantic pace, desperation pushing them forward.
On the platform, Art and Gallena had watched it all unfold with growing disbelief.
Eventually, Art let out a long breath. “Well… that was certainly something.”
Gallena ran a hand through her hair, her expression a mix of confusion and discomfort. “Should we have… I don’t know. Intervened? Sent help?”
Art gave a helpless shrug, gesturing vaguely at the sea. “We’d never have reached them in time. By the time we informed people at the harbour, the entire thing would be over.”
A third presence joined them then—The stone door opened with a soft scrape, and a tall figure stepped out onto the platform.
Arthur, the acting head of the Conspectus in Talia’s absence, was wrapped in the typical midnight-blue robes and wore the smooth, expressionless stone mask. He gave them a short nod and moved to the edge of the platform, peering into the carnage below.
“…Didn’t your message say twenty boats?” Was the first thing he said upon seeing the boats, his voice flat.
“Yeah…” Gallena replied wincing, her gaze not quite on him. “Now it’s more like… eight? The rest…sort off toppled.”
Sighing, Arthur took the telescope from Art. He looked out across the water for several long seconds.
“By the moon,” he muttered, his voice carrying a hint of worry and apprehension at being the one to deal with the issue. “they really do look like refugees.”
“So?” Art asked. “Do we… help them? Or…?”
“Well, for starters,” Arthur said, giving the pair an accessory look. “How about we give these poor people some light. They’re rowing in complete darkness. No wonder half of them sank.”
Sufficiently chided, Gallena moved to one of the lanterns and activated the enchantment with a whisper. A pale cone of light flared out over the waters, cool and bluish, sweeping over the few remaining boats with sharp clarity.
But instead of calming the survivors and giving them guidance, the sudden light seemed to have the opposite effects on the survivors.
For some reason, the boats reeled in panic, screams erupting again. The men began to row even more desperately, for some reason rushing to the island. One of the vessels, already lurching, rocked too hard, tilted sideways, and dumped its crew into the sea with a splash. The water claimed the crew immediately.
The three of them could only watch in horrified confusion as the mayhem was happening, not understanding why.
“…You know what?” Arthur said softly, never taking his eyes off the disaster below. “Let’s turn that off.”
Without a word, Gallena flicked her hand, and the light died.
***
When the survivors finally reached the stony shore, their limbs trembling and lungs burning, they stumbled from their boats with all the grace of men half-dead. What little courage they had brought with them had long since been spent—burned out in panic, in rowing, in watching their comrades vanish beneath the waves.
And waiting for them on the shore was a sight none had expected.
Arrayed in a semicircle on the dark beach stood a contingent of sorcerers. A dozen at least, maybe more, cloaked in layered robes, each with a smooth stone mask shaped in the vague likeness of a human face—expressionless, cold, and unblinking. The light from nearby lanterns glinted off their polished masks, making them look like statues come to life.
The survivors froze. Some dropped to their knees. Others raised trembling hands. A few broke into sobs. They had come to fight and now, as they were decimated and utterly pent, stood before what looked to be their executioners.
Not one man reached for a weapon.
There was no fight left in them.
Instead, one sorcerer silently extended a hand—not with a weapon, but with a thick woolen blanket.
Another offered a steaming cup of tea, fragrant and warm.
A third gestured toward a wide bonfire further up the shore, where several sorcerers had begun to tend the flames, the warmth licking upward into the night like a beacon.
The silence that followed was thicker than any spell. The invaders—if one could still call them that—looked at each other, baffled. Confused. Unsure whether it was a trick.
But no transformation into a frog followed. No sudden explosion. No entrapment of the soul.
And so, defeated in every possible way, they accepted.
The men wrapped themselves in offered cloth. They sipped the tea with shaking hands. They gathered around the fire, some crying, others muttering prayers. No one asked what came next. No one gave orders. Whatever plan they’d carried with them onto the boats had drowned alongside half their number.
In the end, the survivors spent the rest of the night not as enemies, but as guests, kept alive by the very hands they had come to harm. Their mission was forgotten. Their rage burned out. And whatever drove them to take to the water in the first place had been lost in the tide.
Given everything, it was perhaps the best outcome they could have possibly hoped for.
***
The last place to receive the faithful’s hatred was the Church of Vows.
When the group burst through its threshold—torches burning, hammers raised, ropes dragging behind them—Miriel was not entirely surprised, for he felt the weight of it all beforehand—not the detail or the exact shape of the violence, but the breath of senseless evil, thick and sour.
And when he saw the symbols of the local faith stitched into their tunics and worn on their necks, he understood. He understood that Gerold’s worst fears had come to pass.
Still, Miriel tried. Even then, he tried.
He moved slowly to meet them, in hope to stop this madness. His voice was calm and gentle, carrying a weight of untold ages.
“You do not need to do this.” he said. “There is no need for harm. You have been misled.”
But they could not hear him, for they stuffed their ears with wax and cloth, taken in fearful precaution against the foul, serpentine sorcery the tortoise priest was rumoured to wield.
And so they didn’t answer him. They shouted to one another as they approached, each barely intelligible over clogged ears, the men trading fragments of furious resolve between each other:
half-heard over their own muting, trading fragments of furious resolve:
“—den of evil—”
“—filthy monsters—”
“—must be cleansed—”
Their eyes, when they fell on Miriel, were filled with disgust. With fear. With hatred. Yet still, they hesitated to approach, as the stories had been told of his terrible magic, of curses that lingered.
And so, they didn’t dare strike at him directly yet, intending to bury him under his church instead.
Hammers rose and fell. Ropes were thrown and pulled. They battered at the pale walls, trying to bring them down.
But the church had been warded by magic, reinforced beyond mortal means. The stone rang hollow under their blows, unbroken and unmoved. Ropes snapped, pulleys tore free, and the walls stood as they always had.
Miriel, still unmoving, spoke again—sorrow now folding into his voice. He implored them to leave, for they still could. As long as they made no damage, as long as they did not attack him directly, they would be allowed to leave, his guardian still holding back by the promise she had made him.
They didn’t listen.
They couldn’t. Not at this point.
The minutes dragged on, filled only with the dull clang of futile strikes and the ragged shouts of men wearing themselves out on unbreakable stone.
And then the priest leading them—an older man, face red with effort and rage—let out a snarl. The futility of their efforts seemed to have freed the priest from the fear he had harboured toward Miriel. He turned from the wall he had tried to topple, his eyes locking on Miriel, and bared his teeth.
Miriel pleaded to the man, hoping to spare him from what was to come. For once they attacked, Lord Hadwyn’s orders would take precedence over Miriel’s wishes, the men’s fate sealed.
“Please,” he said again, quiet and aching. “You still have time to leave.”
But the man didn’t leave.
Instead, he raised his hammer high, face contorted in anger, and charged.
And then—
Jolán stepped from the shadows like a wraith, her body still and silent as she appeared in front of Miriel. Her black armor hungrily drank the moonlight, a spiked silhouette giving a truly menacing feeling as he observed the incoming attacker. In her hands, she held a katana long and dark, its surface wrapped in a smoky haze that curled and slithered, pulsing with what could only be described as bottomless hunger.
The priest didn’t see her until he was nearly upon her—and even then, he didn’t stop. His scream tore through the silence as he brought the hammer down.
Jolán moved.
She didn’t block the blow. She didn’t need to.
Her blade hissed through the air, severing metal and flesh in the same breath. The hammer split like brittle wood, the man following its fat closely. His body was carved in half, the two pieces falling to the grass with a wet thud, blood spraying across stone and soil in a wide arc.
Then those who witnessed the priest’s death rushed forward—some driven by vengance, others by desperation. In the end, their reasons didn’t matter.
Jolán walked through them like a gust of wind, blade cutting through the dark in quiet arcs. Every swing was deliberate— Bone parted like butter. Flesh peeled back in precise, bloodless lines—followed by the flood as the bodies realized they had been cut, lives bleeding into the church soil.
Miriel watched in sorrow, his form heavy with grief, each death twisting dagger deeper into his heart. “Jolán… please… it’s enough.”
His words drifted into the night like gust of wind. Whether Jolán didn’t hear or chose not to, she gave no sign.
Some of the men finally saw what was happening and tried to shout a warning in horror— but their own precautions damned them, the wax and cloth stuffed in the ears of the faithful sealing their fate.
In the end, none did run. Most kept striking at the temple walls, completely focused on their task, unaware that death was already behind them.
And one by one, they fell.
By the time it ended, Jolán stood alone, surrounded by the dead. Her blade hung at her side, its smoky trail curling lazily in the moonlight. Despite the carnage, not a drop of blood touched her armor, blade or boots. Her gaze swept the aftermath with eerie calm, a quiet, dispassionate serenity—like a painter regarding a finished canvas.
In the center of the church, Miriel stood unmoving, his massive frame bowed slightly under the weight of what had occurred. His reptilian face conveyed more sorrow than words ever could. His shell, ancient and resilient, could not shield him from the grief within.
The grass was soaked a deep red. Blood covered the stone walls. The church, once a place of prayer and contemplation, now looked like a slaughterhouse.
The Church of Vows still stood, but its peace was gone. Its sanctity drowned in blood.
***
Far from the chaos that crept through the streets of Oldtown and the city’s surroundings—far from the screams, the smoke, and the rivers of the faithful’s blood—Septon Gerold stood within the sanctum of the Starry Sept, delivering his sermon in a voice as steady as the stone beneath his feet.
The chamber was quiet, as reverent as it could be given the circumstances. The moonlight, coming through the arched windows, painted gentle pools of silver across the floor and walls. His words, full of conviction, echoed cleanly, hopefully stirring the hearts of the listeners, making them chose peace over violence.
He spoke of laws—ones of both gods and men, ones that applied to every living being and every living soul.
“Oh… Just Gerold,” came a voice—deep and stern.
He stumbled for half a breath, then continued.
He spoke of mercy. He spoke of compassion, of empathy for the inbetweeners—beings different and foreign, yet no less children of the Seven.
“Oh, loving Gerold,” came another voice, warm and full of tenderness.
He blinked, a pause in his speech lasting a heartbeat.
He spoke of wisdom, of perspective, of understanding that brought the end to irrational fears.
“Oh, wise Gerold,” rasped a breath against his ear, dry as parchment.
His heartbeat quickened, yet he pressed on.
He spoke of courage. The courage to stand apart when the others are in the wrong. To see when the others are blind.
“Oh, daring Gerold,” rang another voice—fierce and bold.
He felt a heat bloom in his chest.
He spoke of mercy, of unconditional love, of the connection they all share regardless of their origin.
“Oh, sweet Gerold,” came a voice—young and tender, full of innocence.
His knees weakened. His mouth felt dry. Still he preached.
He spoke of duty. The drive to do better, be better, act better.
“Oh, dutiful Gerold,” said a voice of calm resolve, thunderous like a forge hammer.
He faltered. His fingers clenched the altar. He was sweating. Why was he sweating?
He spoke of endings, the destination they all shared. The consequences of choices made.
“Oh, humble Gerold,” came the last voice—cold and distant, a breeze from the crypt.
He stopped.
His hands trembled at his sides. A pressure bloomed in his skull.
Seven.
Together as one.
Seven voices thundering in his mind.
“Oh, Gerold.”
They whispered as one.
"Go outside."
The world seemed to narrow. His eyes glazed, his vision blurred. His voice caught in his throat mid-sentence, the sermon forgotten.
The divine chorus in his mind drowned out everything else—the murmurs of the crowd, the calls of his brothers.
He didn’t know if it was real.
To readily believe he was chosen when so many were not would be a hubris of highest degree.
But he obeyed.
He turned and began walking, steps slow and unshaken. The people in the pews looked up in confusion, murmurs rippling. He walked from the altar and down the long aisle, the hem of his robes dragging against the ancient stones.
From behind him, Brother Toman’s voice rang out—sharp and nervous.
“What are you doing?!” he demanded. “Septon Gerold, you haven’t finished the sermon!”
But Gerold didn’t stop to respond. His feet moved with quiet inevitability. He felt nothing but a pull—like a tide dragging him toward a shore he could not yet see.
Toman reached for his sleeve, his voice rising in urgency. “Gerold, stop! You mustn’t—!”
The Septon reached the towering front doors. His hand, pale and shaking, found the iron handle and pushed. The doors groaned open, ancient hinges weeping with protest, and the breath of the night swept inside like a tide—cold and sharp.
The Starry Sept sat high on its hill, rising above the heart of Oldtown like a silent guardian, the highest building in the city except for the Hightower that loomed above all. And from that height, the surrounding world, both within and outside the city, was laid bare.
And what a world it was.
Below, the streets writhed with firelight—moving torches, erratic and many, swarming like angry insects. Beyond the walls, strange bursts of arcane light flashed in the dark, unnatural colors burning briefly before vanishing. The faintest outlines of buildings in the inbetweener village could be seen—some of them aglow, burning.
And through some quirk of wind—perhaps natural, perhaps not—the sound traveled uphill. Screams. Cries. Steel striking flesh. Something howling in the dark.
His knees weakened upon the sight, the sins of his brethren laid bare before his eyes.
His voice was hoarse when it returned to him. He turned, slowly, toward Toman—toward answers. “What does it—”
Pain answered, a sudden, sharp pressure blooming in his back.
He staggered forward, ground rushing to meet him. The world tilted, the moonlight spinning, as he fell onto the cold stone floor.
His vision blurred as he turned, Gerold looking up to see Brother Toman standing above him, dagger in his hand gleaming red. Behind him stood others—brothers in robes, their eyes cold as they watched him bleed.
Toman’s voice was low but trembling with conviction. “You couldn’t just stay in the sept, could you, Septon Gerold? It didn’t have to end like this.”
Gerold coughed, blood touching his lips. “What… what are you doing?”
Toman looked down at him with disappointment. “What must be done. This is a cleansing, a purge of filth that poisons our land.”
He gestured toward the city.
“We are carrying out the Seven’s will. The heretics, the monsters, the mages… They are not part of the Seven’s plan and so they must be removed.”
Gerold stared at Brother Toman, something stirring behind his eyes.
Then, as he finally comprehended his words, something in him snapped into place.
His fingers trembled against the stone floor as he pushed upward, body aching and breath ragged. As he straightened—slowly, impossibly—he felt warmth flooding the wound, a tingling beneath his skin. And when his hand brushed the injury, he found with shock that there was no gash to find. There was only smooth flesh, knit together by the hand unseen.
A soft whisper bloomed in his mind—a familiar presence that guided him since he was just a child afraid of the dark. A nurturing voice that had listened to his prayers, one that provided him with peace.
Tears gathered in Gerold’s eyes and a smile crept over his face—one not of joy, but of vindication.
He stood fully.
And the gathered brothers stepped back.
Gasps rippled through the clergy, the men frozen in stunned disbelief. Their Septon—stabbed and dying just a moment ago—now stood whole.
And when Gerold looked at them, the disbelief was replaced by dread.
“Seven’s will?” Gerold’s voice was quiet, yet it carried power. It resonated with a weight not entirely his own. “How can any of us claim knowledge of the Seven’s will?” he asked, stepping forward slowly. “We are nothing but flesh, flawed and limited. What arrogance must take root in a man to say he comprehends the gods’ desires—when even the wise are uncertain, when even the most faithful must pray for guidance?”
He advanced on Toman. The brother, so defiant and murderous moments ago, now wilted in Gerold’s presence, unable to meet his eyes.
“And If the inbetweeners were truly an abomination in the sight of the Seven,” Gerold said quietly, voice softening but not losing strength. “then why do they still draw breath? Why has no divine storm swept them away? If they offend the Seven, then the Seven should judge them—not you.”
He stopped, face to face with Toman, who shook like a man standing before an abyss.
Gerold’s eyes had changed.
They no longer held the kind, mild blue. They burned now with an unnatural clarity—like a prismatic crystal. Within them danced the full spectrum of the Seven: Father’s purple, Mother’s blue, Crone’s Yellow, Warrior’s red, Maiden’s green, Smith’s orange and Stranger’s white— a kaleidoscope of the Seven’s light focused through one soul.
“Look me in the eye, Toman.” Gerold said, his voice a whisper.
Toman flinched. He couldn’t. He turned his head aside like a child ashamed.
But Gerold reached out and gently—almost tenderly—lifted the man’s chin, turning his face toward him.
“Look me in the eye. And tell me that what you did tonight… was done in their name.”
Toman’s lips parted. “I… I…”
He tried. He truly did. Somewhere in him, the heat stirred, the belief in the cleansing, the idea that he had done something righteous. But when he met that gaze—he couldn’t speak. His throat closed.
He crumbled, collapsing to the ground with head bowed.
Gerold watched for a moment, then reached forward and gripped the pendant around Toman’s neck—a seven-pointed star—and ripped it free. The chain snapped with a sharp sound.
“You are no longer a man of faith.” Gerold said, voice hard and carrying a judgement. “Not in this sept. Not in this city. Not in the eyes of the Seven.”
Toman didn’t move, but his weeping deepened, hoarse and broken.
Because the words weren’t just words, but a brand on his soul.
The Seven had judged him.
They had found him guilty.
Gerold turned his gaze from the defeated Brother and extended it toward the city sprawling below, where he saw his flock—lost and scattered, misguided yet still his to guide. Through the eyes of the Mother, he saw each faithful begging, each faithful collapsing, each faithful in flight. He saw the pain, the anger and the fear that had filled his flock’s hearts.
And so he opened his heart for guidance, the answer swift and reassuring.
Gerold raised his hand—palm open, upwards, trembling yet certain—and called out, his voice layered and full of conviction. “Oh, Father! Bring justice to the misguided! Restrain their hand and judge their sins!”
And the Father answered.
Chains of radiant light burst into existence—prismatic, shimmering and divine. They uncoiled across streets and alleys, over rooftops and fields, winding with impossible precision. They did not fumble or search. They knew exactly where to go.
One by one, they found their targets.
Those who had marched with torches.
Those who had tried to raise their blades against the innocent.
Those who ran away from the consequences of their actions, thinking they had escaped judgment.
The chains struck swiftly and silently. They wrapped around limbs mid-stride, coiled around torsos, clasped throats without choking.
And all were brought to their knees.
From every direction, the hands of the Father closed in—not to kill, but to hold. Not to burn, but to bind. Every man caught in the light was spared from further sin… and from the vengeance of those they had wronged.
It was a staggering display. A miracle, really—impossible in scale, in reach, in sheer clarity of will for someone casting an incantation for the first time.
And yet it happened.
Because Gerold was not just any priest—he was the Septon of the Starry Sept, the highest voice of faith in Oldtown. It was his duty to care for his flock, his right to stop them.
And because after more than a hundred and fifty years, the Seven had found a voice. And when the gods had finally found themselves able to speak...
Well, they could be forgiven for being a little dramatic.
***
After Gerold cast his spell, the chaos began to dissolve.
The attack—along with the inevitable retaliation—ground to a halt as radiant chains wrapped around every surviving assailant. The faithful were seized in place, locked in gleaming bonds, and the inbetweeners, who had surged forward with vengeance in their hearts, faltered—the sight of divine light shackling their enemies robbing the moment of its fury.
So the killing stopped.
By dawn, the outcome had become undeniable. The faithful had been shattered—hundreds, perhaps thousands dead. Many more were caught alive, glowing restraints eventually replaced with iron bars and stone cells, their ultimate fate yet unknown.
Some townsfolk of Oldtown had perished in the violence as well—whether by design or mistake, none could say.
The inbetweeners had lost only two— one demi-human caught alone in the wrong place and one broken Leyndell soldier who couldn’t could carry his burden no more.
For the inbetweeners it was a victory absolute yet empty, as nothing had been gained.
When the sun rose and the prismatic chains gave way to mundane confinement, Septon Gerold left the Starry Sept. He walked through streets and meadows, both heavy with silence, until he reached the place he knew he had to go.
The Church of Vows.
It stood as it always had, completely untouched by violence that had taken place there, but the field inside, once serene and green, was soaked in blood. That it had been spilled here, in a place of peace, seemed a wound far deeper than the physical.
He found Miriel where he always stood—in the center of the church, beneath the open sky. The massive, scaled figure was still, his posture quiet. Though his face was alien, sorrow radiated from him, unmistakable in its weight. It was the sorrow of someone who had lived too long and seen too many things happen again.
When they saw each other, both bowed their heads in greeting, yet they said nothing.
Because what were they supposed to say?
Eventually, Gerold did the only thing that felt right.
He moved forward and knelt upon the stained grass, the crimson earth beneath his knees soaking through his robes. His hands trembled slightly as he whispered a prayer.
And the Maiden answered.
Tears—clear and luminous—formed in the air around him, gathering like dew on an unseen leaves. One by one, they fell. And wherever they touched the ground, the blood vanished. The stain was lifted. The green returned. The sanctity was regained.
In a few moments, the church was pure again.
Gerold looked up. His eyes found Miriel.
The great tortoise watched him silently, his ancient face unreadable at first. But then, slowly, Miriel smiled. It was faint, sad, but real—something in him easing, the sight of Gerold’s incantation bringing some peace to the priest.
“It seems you’ve finally found your gods, Gerold,” he said, his voice carrying a certain joy, one partially tainted by sorrow. “I’m glad your path is no longer walked alone.”
Gerold returned the smile—tired, weathered, but true.
“No,” he said quietly. “I didn’t find them. They were always with me. I just… learned how to listen.”
Miriel nodded, accepting the words without question. “Of course.”
Silence followed again—but this time, it was a gentler thing. Two men found some comfort in each other’s company, in it finding strength to speak words that would follow.
“I’m sorry,” Gerold said at last, the words heavy. “For what they did. For what we did. There’s no excuse. The Faith of the Seven committed something monstrous, and I don’t know how we even begin to atone.”
Miriel met his gaze. “Your words are kind, Gerold, but the fault doesn’t lie with you alone. After the fighting ended, I spoke with Jolan. She told me she had overheard the faithful planning this some time ago. She knew. Others knew. They prepared. Only I remained blind—clinging to the idea that we shared the same goal.”
His voice didn’t break, but there was sorrow in it deep and unmistakable.
“I’ll see to it that my side atone for what was done,” he said.
In the end, both men stood in the aftermath of a massacre neither of them had wanted, both bearing shame that didn’t truly belong to them.
Gerold exhaled. “So… what now?”
Miriel turned his gaze toward the light spilling in from the east.
“I’ll send word to Lord Hadwyn. Tell him all that happened.” He said, then paused. “For better or worse, I don’t think he’ll be overly concerned. His perspective… tends to align more with Jolan’s than mine.”
Gerold didn’t comment. He couldn’t. Not when it was his people who had tried to draw blood.
“Things may become difficult for both the faithful and the Hightowers alike.” he said after a while. “The faithful, the townsfolk… so many are dead. An attack like this, carried out in Oldtown, under the Hightower’s watch… this will complicate things.”
Miriel offered what little comfort he could. “Have faith, Gerold. You finally heard your gods—and you’ll have me to share the burden.”
Gerold looked at him. The weight on his shoulders remained, but now, somehow, it lessened.
“I suppose you’re right,” he murmured. “I suppose you’re right.”
And around them, the grass—clean once more—swayed gently in the breeze, the breeze of a new day.
Comments
Pemmil
It's both "Gerold's faith is strong" and "magic is returning to Planetos." Melisandre killed five men with one spell during last chapter and Marwyn noted he could probably cast stronger spells then before if he tried.
Carl Gman
It has been awhile since I read this. Did Gerold finally reached his gods because he finally have a catalyst to perform miracel? ( I think Miriel gave him a sacred seal in a past chapter). Or was his faith so strong it created a beacon for the Seven to finally intervene? Maybe because of the InBetweeners and Ranni, a living god, did Westeros started to finally gain its lost magic back?
Ad_Valorem
OH I LOVE THIS Faith of the Seven incantations though… now I’m wondering how they’d even be statted out specifically? Pure Faith? Or Faith/Int like Golden Order Fundamentalist incantations?
