Seventeen years ago, during the Kirsh reclamation, the Saint of Zotiel had yet to receive his blessing and be anointed. The young Priest had wrecked his callused hands sewing closed wounds, sawing off limbs and praying for the healing of the injured in Illini, a Kirsh border town just past the Lacrifan border. As he closed the eyes of yet another soldier in a meaningless war, he looked upon his bloodstained hands in sorrow. His priestly rags, already a dark red, now almost looked black. He left the healer's tent, and walked beside the battlefield. Each strike, each clash, scraped at his soul like the clawing of a savage beast.

Swee

Thud

The sound of whistling Kirsh blades had grown all too familiar for him. He turned to his right and walked down the hilltop. As the sounds of battle faded, he heard the crunch of the grass beneath his feet. Ahead lay the only stream passing through the battlefield. He knelt on its bank and began to wash his crusted hands. The cool water singed his calluses. As he gathered the water in his palms, he stared at his reflection for a moment. The pause gave just enough peace in his mind that the sound of a child’s cry pierced through the horror. With peaked ears, he knelt silently, deciding between hallucination and madness. The sloshing of the water hitting the muddy banks almost seemed oppressive.

“WAAA”

His head snapped to his right, his eyes following the meandering stream. A wicker basket in the darkness floated by the battlefield. Tiny amber lights floated just above it, dancing and bobbing with the flow of the water. With a divine fervour that almost seemed beast-like, the young priest sprinted along the muddy shore. Each step he took dug into the soil, but it hardly slowed him down. As he grew closer to it, he heard a sweet chuckling babble. The wicker basket swayed in the stream as tiny hands grabbed at the floating lights. His brows furrowed as he picked up his pace to cut the basket off where the stream meandered back down. He entered the waters until they reached his waist and waited with outstretched arms. Gently, the basket floated into his loving embrace as the lights above it faded. Defiantly in the basket, a child with a proud, almost haughty expression, reached out her chubby little arms.

17 years later In a rowdy underground pub, an undefeated, drunken sailor beckoned the crowd to test their might at his table. The crowd grew wilder and rowdier as the anticipation for a challenger grew.

“I’ll do it”

The crowd cheered as they turned to face the voice. An older, motherly woman with fiery red hair, auburn skin and a rowdy look paced towards the table. The crowd, now silent, awaited her challenge.

“I’ll do it for a gamble,” she said as she sat herself down on the rickety chair.

“Aye, lads, the mother wants a gamble”

The crowd erupted with laughter. The snickers and jeers from the crowd chased a high that they didn’t believe they would meet today. Unbothered and steel-willed, the motherly lady reached into her coin purse.

“Three gold”

The crowd was silenced once again. Murmurs broke out as the crowd awaited the sailor's reply. 

"Three gold? That’s a farm and a future, lady," someone muttered.

“Three gold. Unless you’d rather bet your pride instead. I’m good at taking both.”

In Lacrifah, coins are earned, gambled and lost all in a day. Copper coins were the lowest form of currency, often used to buy individual fruits and veggies, with 20 copper coins being the assigned state cost of a loaf of bread. Silver coins were the commoners’ monthly wage as they worked as farmhands, in smithies and stables. Gold coins, on the other hand, were a commoner’s dream. A single gold coin could buy you a nice house out in the country for you to live out your days. Platinum coins were the royal bounty. Found only in royal treasuries, deep merchant vaults and church headquarters. Each type of coin increased in division by a hundred every level.

The fiery challenges issued a stake higher than most commoners would ever see. The sailor paused to think a drunk thought as he yelled into the crowd, “Get me my coins, we’re gonna drink pretty today,” and the crowd cheered once more.

With the bets on the table, the competitors glared into each other’s eyes. Their elbows hit the table, and as it wobbled, they gripped onto each other's palms.

“3”

“2”

“1”

THUD

“AAAAH”

The crowd cheered louder than ever before as the sailor clasped his right wrist. The lady, 3 gold richer, took her earnings and pushed through the crowd as she left. Coin purse in hand, she picked up pace and darted between the alleys. In a dark, unseemly corner, she paused for a moment as she waited to hear the shuffling sound of the feet almost certain to follow her.

Now certain that she wasn’t followed, she finally breathed out. She smiled as she looked at the coin purse in her palm.

“Jhudiel, release me”, she whispered, as a swirl of pink powder circled her entire being. As the powder faded, a pale-skinned maiden with straight black hair smirked as she reached into her coin purse and pulled out her three real gold coins.

Petra, attendant to the Saint of Zotiel, had loved the risk of disguise and trickery to shake down naive fools. Her chaste upbringing only drove her rebellious nature wild, making her fall deeper in love with seeking her own pleasure. Her faith lay split between Zotiel, the Angel of Mercy, and Jhudiel, the Angel of Love. Purpose and passion pulled her between mercy and mischief more times than she could remember.

Leaving behind no trail, Petra walked back up Scholar’s Street to get home. Petra snuck back into the Temple of The Unwavering Hand, climbing up a nearby tree and hanging from its branch until she reached her partially open window. She leapt from the branch into the room she called home.

THWAP

Her fingertips slapped onto the very edge of the window. Her nails dug deep into the wood. Her strength felt zapped, and as she looked below to the ground beneath her feet, her guts twisted and warped. Petra looked to her left as she began to swing her body from side to side, before lifting her leg into the window. Slowly, she leveraged herself over the edge and into her room. 

As she stumbled in, her body landed on the floor. The statue of Zotiel that watched over her as she slept, shook, and crept closer to the edge.

Petra lunged at the statue, reaching out and grabbing it before it could fall. Petra lifted herself up and held the statue in her hand. The stone statue of the angel Zotiel felt icy in her hands as it stared ahead cold and unfeeling. Zotiel’s wings folded inwards and gathered underneath her delicate hands. She held a sewing needle between her fingers, seemingly ready to pierce disloyalty and stitch together a more loyal and devout follower. She rested the statue back in its rightful place. Delicately. As though it watched her through the night. Her clothes had picked up enough dirt to get her in trouble tomorrow, if she were to get caught, with the Temple’s Head Attendant, Ann. Petra knew that she wasn’t favoured by the other attendants who left her out as an outcast. Ann chose to undermine her at every turn, pushing work her way more than any of her favourites.

“I didn’t choose to be taken in by your Saint”, Petra thought to herself.

Petra’s escapades weren’t thrill-seeking adventures; she needed them to remind herself that she is still free within the system she was born in. Every coin she earned was saved. All to save herself should the Saint’s protection fade. She removed her brown workman's boots, her dirty and worn out blue pants and her thin white blouse. She packed them in the cloth bag and hid them underneath the floorboards beneath her bed then she opened her small wooden chest of clothes and pulled out a floral nightgown. 

Petra then dressed herself in the Temple’s modest nightwear. The walls closed in on her like a coffin, familiar yet inescapable. She composed herself and regained her poise to calm her spirit. Petra examined her room. Unsure if any intruders had wandered in, she opened the door to the Temple hall. As it creaked open, she heard the laughter of the other attendants and closed the door swiftly. She refused to deal with them this late at night. As the laughter and chatter moved into her hallway and approached her door, the laughter paused momentarily.

KNOCK KNOCK

Petra refused to answer their call. She could deal with them tomorrow morning, not now. Not when she hasn’t made absolutely certain that no trace was left behind. A brown envelope slipped underneath her door. The chatter and laughter resumed and carried on past her door and down the hallway.

Petra picked up the envelope and turned it over. The wax seal of the Temple of The Unwavering Hand sealed the envelope shut.

“Official summons?” Petra thought to herself, “How curious. What does the old man want from me this time?”

Petra cracked open the seal. The parchment of the letter was thick, too thick.

Formal.

Unkind.

Uncaring.

The letter was an official Zotiel document for certain, however it was not from Orion, the Saint of Zotiel. The cold ink and sharp handwriting that hurt with every letter was Ann’s.

“Petra,
A woman arrived barefoot at our midnight vigil. 

She was ragged and lacerated but refused treatment.

All she would say is that she needed to speak to you at once but she refused to give her name.

We could not find you last night to bring you to meet her. Where were you?

She left and said House Midnight thanks the Saint.

Your absence speaks for you.

If you understand the phrase, speak.

If you do not, prove your innocence.