1347 A.D. — Near Geneva

The night smelled like copper and fire.

Rain hissed as it kissed the scorched stone at the mouth of the cave. The hellmouth was sealed—barely. And the warriors who survived danced in soaked armor, laughing, their blades still wet from demons and men alike.

But Gussa did not laugh.

He felt the shift before the betrayal. The silence in the air, like the world was holding its breath.

“You’ve always been too noble,” said Sir Eremund, blade already halfway through Gussa’s side. “Too holy to understand what must be done.”

Gussa’s eyes widened. Then came the second sword. Then the third. Each thrust stripped away more than blood—it ripped into faith, into purpose.

He collapsed into the muddy cavern, his lungs fluttering like broken wings. The knights stood above him like weeping statues.

But none wept.

Somewhere behind the hill, Seraphim was sprinting.

His boots splashed through blood-tainted puddles. His holy tome flapped open like a bird losing altitude. By the time he found Gussa, the knight’s hands twitched uselessly. His breaths came in ragged intervals, mouth foaming pink.

“I told you not to go alone,” Seraphim whispered, dropping to his knees. His voice cracked—raw, desperate. His holy symbol, once polished gold, now glowed red as he began.

“Greater Benediction.”

“Resurrection: Saint’s Heart.”

“Healer’s Wrath.”

“Acolyte’s Blood.”

“Seraphim’s Bond.”

One by one, he tore incantations from his soul, lighting them like candles against the void.

But Gussa only coughed blood.

His eyes, dull and unfocused, met Seraphim’s.

“…they…betrayed me…”

“I know,” Seraphim whispered, tears streaming. “But you’re not going anywhere. You hear me? You don’t get to die!”

He gripped Gussa’s hand. It was cold.

And then he made the last choice a priest could make.

He spoke a prayer forbidden by every Church under God.

“Divine Transference.”

The spell swallowed the cave in white flame.

A blast of light tore the ground open. Vines burst from the soil. Roses bloomed where snow once lay. Thorns curved around Gussa’s corpse like a cradle of barbed hope. The air screamed with the scent of holy wrath.

Seraphim’s skin cracked. His veins turned to light.

“I’m sorry I failed you… but I won’t let you rot…”

He smiled through tears. “One day, you’ll return. One day… you’ll remember me.”

He slumped forward into Gussa’s chest, his body dissolving into a shimmer of gold dust.

The forest grew around the body that refused to die.

And in the heart of a rose-choked glade, time stood still.

One after another, incantations spat light across Gussa’s shredded form. Bones snapped back in place. Skin stitched itself like crawling vines.

But the light dimmed.

Gussa’s soul had already passed on.

“No... no no no no... TAKE ME!” Seraphim howled, hammering one last glyph into the earth, slashing his palm over Gussa’s chest.

And something answered.

Vines erupted from the rock beneath them. Roses of crimson and thorns like obsidian daggers spiraled out from the soil, wrapping Gussa’s corpse. Petals bloomed from his wounds. His body—untouched by rot—slipped into a sleep that defied time itself.

Seraphim’s last words were lost beneath the sound of roots digging deep.