The church was cold.
Stepping through the broken doors, I waited until I was certain no eyes lingered behind me. The street had been quiet, which was preferable. I was alone now. At least, as alone as someone like me could be.
I reached into my coat and pulled out the inquisitorial cloak, given to me a day prior.
Dark black lined with sigils only visible under the right light. A symbol of judgment, yet oddly humble in its appearance. I wrapped it around myself with practiced ease, the fabric resting heavy across my shoulders and the hood felt heavy atop of my head, covering my face.
It had a different weight entirely. One that turned you into a shadow with a name, a name that no one knew.
Then, with my fingers tightening around the hilt of my sword - still folded in its sheathed form - I slammed it once against the wall.
Clang.
The noise rang through the ruin, bouncing off old stone and rotted pews. I stood still and listened.
Silence.
No footsteps, no whispered warnings. Just the soft echo of wind pushing through the broken rafters, carrying the scent of decay in the wind.
Hopefully this whole mission is as consistent as this.
Satisfied, I walked deeper in.
The front of the church was still intact, to my utter surprise. Half the building had caved in long ago, scorched oak beams exposed to the sky. Moss had crept in along the edges, climbing the walls where sunlight could still reach. Rain tapped loudly above, a slow and steady drip through the ruined ceiling, soaking into cracked marble and moldy carpets.
To the left, a hallway led toward what had once been the children's catechism room. The door there had been reduced to blackened splinters. I stepped over them and peered in.
Charred desks and melted icons were strewn across. Collapsed beams tangled in ivy and moss carried a heavy scent along with the reek of smoke. Even after all this time - the smell was the kind that clings to a place long after the fire's out. A rusted bell still hung from the ceiling, crooked and unmoving, like even it had stopped caring.
I didn't stay long, if this place really was haunted, I didn't intend to test it.
I'm not fighting something I can't physically hurt.
The sanctuary lay ahead, the main hall still lit by broken daylight slipping through shattered cathedral glass. The cathedral glass displayed the brilliance of a man clad in white. His hands held a sword, which its blade buried in the earth, and a mask covering his face. Only the eye holes of the mask revealed that he was anything close to human, his eyes stained in aquamarine.
We meet again, old tired Emperor.
Rows of wooden pews stood perfectly arranged, untouched by time or decay, their wood still stained a glossy dark brown. The floor beneath them was clean - suspiciously so. No dust, no ash, no dirt.
Divine protection, maybe. Or just superstition strong enough to keep looters or the unfortunate away.
At the far end of the hall stood the pulpit, carved in old oak and shaped like a folded wing. A single book rested on it, open to a page that stirred gently in the wind, as if it were inviting me. Its cover was made of leather dyed bone-white, edges trimmed in fading gold. Its brilliance was undoubtable, and its allure was something even I couldn't deny.
I stepped closer.
The ink was fresh.
Lamentations 4:17
"The head that bears the crown grows heavy with burden; yet the head that carries a thousand thoughts shall fall first into the dust."
I stared at the verse for a moment, lips forming the words again under my breath, reading it faintly into the wind.
Not one I'd ever heard before. Maybe apocryphal. Maybe not. I never really payed attention the sisters when it came to religious studies, and they had tried to beat it into me a couple times.
The verse was the kind of thing that sounded wise if you didn't think too hard. Or maybe it was exactly what it seemed - a warning. I had a certain distaste for the Emperors church, so maybe I was biased.
Too many thoughts. Too many secrets. Too much knowledge. These were all things that seemed thematic to this world.
I scoffed quietly to myself, partly out of disdain, yet I still couldn't shake off the warning.
"Guess I'm already halfway in the dust, then."
Preparing to leave, my foot tapped something solid beneath the pulpit, hidden just beyond sight.
Looking down, I saw it. Barely visible through the shadow of the pulpit's base - a small wooden hatch flush with the floorboards. Its color almost camouflaged it, and I was lucky I had discovered the handle of it.
A hatch.
Bingo. Rats will always be rats.
I knelt, brushed aside the dust that had gathered around the edges, and gave the small iron handle a sharp tug. The wooden hatch resisted at first, swollen and stubborn with age, but then gave way with a groan, revealing a stairwell descending into blackness.
Old, but not untouched.
Oh?
There were faint scuffs along the stone - signs of boots. Smugglers maybe. Or worse. Either way, it was being used, and very recently.
A couple days ago at most.
This tunnel had to lead somewhere. Rats never left a tunnel behind, nor would they have risked detection by leaving it unobstructed.
I stood and stepped back, loosening the folded blade from my side. With a flick of my wrist, the mechanism snapped - the blade extended with a satisfying metallic click, its edge glinting faint silver in the light. My revolver sat comfortably at my hip, still holstered, but ready.
I took one final look at the verse.
The book hadn't moved.
"Let's hope that warning isn't aimed towards me."
And with that, I began to descend.