They came with banners of moonlight and blades blessed in silence.
The Order of the Silver Veil—a secretive cult of purity zealots long thought extinct—marched beneath stormy skies, their white armor etched with celestial sigils, their mouths stitched shut in oaths of eternal silence. Every step they took was in perfect synchrony. Every breath, every beat of their hearts, was offered to a single cause:
To erase the unborn flame.
Talia felt them before the scouts returned. Her womb flared like a forge struck by a hammer of divinity. She clutched her stomach and smiled faintly.
"They know," she whispered.
Lucien stood beside her, arms crossed, watching the black horizon pulse with holy fire.
"Let them come," he said. "Let them learn what purity costs."
The first wave arrived at dawn—an army without a voice, charging without war cries. Arrows of silver rained down, infused with vows. Their priests stood behind, casting mirrored shields that repelled corrupted Qi.
But this was not the temple of old.
This was Lucien's sanctum—alive, twisted, hungry.
Walls shifted. Ground opened. Tendrils of obsidian sprouted like thorns, dragging paladins into the earth. Screams, though unheard, filled the air with unspoken agony.
Talia walked among them like a mother through her garden. Her belly glowed faintly, and those who dared approach found themselves gripped by hallucinations—visions of their own gods bowing to the furnace-child.
Some turned their blades on themselves.
Others fell to their knees.
But the Silver Veil had one more weapon:
A Sword-Sister, clad in relic-woven silk, her face hidden behind a veil of chainlight. She carried a blade made of pure prayer, and her aura shimmered with the memory of godhood.
She made it to the inner sanctum.
Lucien intercepted her.
"You think you'll reach her?" he asked.
The Sword-Sister said nothing.
She attacked.
Light met flame. Prayer met sin. Their battle shattered walls and bent space. Every blow she struck echoed with the agony of a hundred fallen martyrs. Every counter Lucien delivered rewrote the air with damnation.
And still, the Sword-Sister pushed forward—closer to Talia.
Talia rose slowly, one hand on her stomach, the other outstretched. The child within her pulsed once. The air cracked.
A soundless shockwave erupted.
The Sword-Sister froze. Her blade trembled.
Talia's voice was soft—but it carried the weight of genesis.
"You would kill the future because it frightens you."
The Sword-Sister lowered her weapon.
"For that," Talia whispered, "you will carry its mark."
She touched the woman's brow.
A sigil burned into her skull. She screamed in silence—and vanished.
The remaining crusaders broke.
Some ran.
Some clawed at their own armor as visions consumed them. Others simply collapsed, consumed by a power they could not understand.
Lucien embraced Talia, pressing his forehead to hers.
"Still safe?"
She nodded, hand on her womb.
"He's growing. Faster now. Stronger."
Lucien smiled. "Then let them keep coming."
He looked to the distant mountains, where more banners stirred.
"We'll burn every doctrine. Every crusade. Until only our gospel remains."