As we stepped inside, we found the priests already scattered throughout the space, each burning incense, their low voices weaving together in quiet chant, accompanied by the chiming of their censers.

In the center stood a large oak table—once covered with charts, parchments, and maps of strategy, now stripped bare. Only the robe-draped arms of the Hierophant rested upon it, hands clasped together.

Opposite him stood the creature. Its head bobbed in slow, rhythmic motion, eyes darting about the room, examining each detail that caught its interest—though never for long. Its hands were bound in iron cuffs, each link looped around a heavy nail driven through the wood to keep it still. I wondered if it could even lift its arms under their weight.

The chair it sat on was low to the ground, yet its feet still dangled, swaying in the same rhythm as its oversized head.

 glanced toward Felix. His gaze was fixed on the creature—sharp, furious, almost trembling with restraint.

I gave a small, deliberate cough to draw his attention away and keep us moving.

The creature, by contrast, seemed utterly unbothered by our arrival. For a moment, I could almost believe it looked pleased—drawn toward the priests’ swinging censers and their murmured hymns. But as the chanting faded, so too did its curiosity. Its head tilted, and those black eyes began to wander once more, searching the tent for something unseen.

My attention shifted to the Hierophant. He leaned forward, his spine curving like a drawn bow as he brought his face closer to the creature.

His silver hair spilled down the sides of his sharp features, almost brushing the wood beneath them.

For a moment, it seemed he might reach out—to touch, to confirm what he saw—but when the creature turned its gaze upon him, he recoiled, withdrawing his hand in quiet disgust.

“Do you understand me, daimon?” the Hierophant’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

“Oh, I very much do understand you, sir,” the creature replied politely. “Though I would greatly prefer if you did not call me a… what was it? Ah, yes—a daimon.”

A stunned silence spread through the tent. I want to believe I was not the only soul unprepared to hear that thing speak—let alone so articulately.

It seemed that His Reverence Laverdirus Eryx, in all his might, could barely maintain his composure after the creature’s disarmingly gentle reply. He managed to respond only after a brief pause—blinking rapidly, as though to clear his vision.

“And what would your… unnatural existence prefer to be called, then?” the Hierophant asked, his tone a mocking imitation of the creature’s own manners.

The creature fell silent for a moment. I thought, foolishly, that the Hierophant’s contempt might have humbled it. I was quickly proven wrong.

“If you’re referring to my kind, sir,” it began politely, “I am what my kin call a Dakobalin. As for my name—if that is what you wished to know—I am Thaddeus Fogg. Very pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”

It dipped its long nose in a small, almost courtly bow. “And you are, sir?” it added, its dark eyes fixed intently on its interrogator.

It had a name, then.

Its mimicry of humanity was unsettling—worryingly natural.

And what, in His holy light, was a Dakobalin? Never in all my years on campaign, nor in my youth seeking enlightenment in Tenebrae, had I ever encountered that word.

The three priests around the table remained silent, their faces unreadable. Plumes of black and white smoke coiled upward toward the tent’s shrouded ceiling, their fragrance thickening the already stifling air.

The fourth stood apart, further back—she had no rightful place among this retinue under ordinary circumstances.

Felix glanced at me, wordless but questioning.

I could offer him only a small shrug in reply.

“How dare you ask anything of me, beast?” came the Hierophant’s booming reply.

A ring of Light pulsed outward from him, washing over us and shattering the calm columns of smoke into spasms of twisting vapor.

The reddish hair atop the creature’s head rippled as the radiance passed, yet it remained otherwise unmoved—unfazed, even.

“My most sincere apologies, sir,” said the creature, “but I had a hypothesis about our conversational dynamic that I simply had to test—and let me tell you, I did get the answer I was looking for.”

Its speech came in a rapid flurry, made even harder to follow by the thick accent that wrapped around every word.

“Are you mocking me, you breathing sin?” the Hierophant barked, his fists and jaw tightening. In answer, the priests took a collective step closer to the table, their censers swinging like threats.

“On the contrary, sir!” the creature proclaimed. “I now know how and when to respond—and I’m quite grateful for your patience.” It looked almost proud of its conclusion.

The whole scene was so absurd that I found myself wondering whether the Hierophant would sooner incinerate the oblivious creature—or burst out laughing in sheer confusion.

“Silence!” commanded the Hierophant, frustration bleeding through the pitch of his voice.

“You will speak only when answering me, beast—and only then,” he continued, his tone hard but beginning to steady. “And if you refuse to comply, believe me, I’ll be more than glad to teach you why you should.”

For a moment, it seemed the creature might respond. But from the exaggerated stillness of its features, I realized it had stopped itself—choosing instead to stand there in silent contemplation.

“That’s better,” His Reverence said at last, pride creeping back into his voice.

“Answer me this now, daimon,” the Hierophant demanded, attempting to press on with the questioning. “Why were you and the rest of your blasphemous kindred here? What vile sorcery conjured you?”

“We were not conjured here, sir—we were summoned,” the creature replied, sounding almost offended.

“And what power summoned you? How were you pulled from Oblivion?” the Hierophant asked, his voice eager—hungry—for the terrible answer he expected.

“Well,” said the creature matter-of-factly, “I was summoned by a letter, as were most of my kin. On second thought, some might have been freelancers—but that’s not really what you asked, is it?
Oh, and I was stationed in the lovely town of Alverset before I was sent here. Not Oblivion, I’m afraid; I’ve never heard of the place, to be honest with you.”

“Isn’t Alverset in Deawiel?” Felix whispered to me.

I turned toward a map of the Lake pinned to a wooden pole nearby to confirm.
“Yes,” I murmured. “Up north, near the coast of Brannowick.”

My thoughts began to wander—to the state that lost province must have fallen into, if creatures like this now walked its lands unchallenged.

“A letter?” His Reverence echoed, astonished. “You mean to say the people of Lapurum simply… called you here?”

“It was more a call for help than an invitation to dinner, but yes—you could say that,” the creature replied, as if its words weren’t spawning more questions than they answered.

The word help struck the Hierophant like a hammer, returning the fury that had only moments before begun to fade.

“You were called here to help them do what? Kill us? Destroy us? Defile the very ground you dared to walk upon?” he roared, his voice reignited with holy anger.

“We were called for our expertise in protecting those under chains,” the creature said at last—its voice losing all trace of politeness for the first time, carrying instead the edge of defiance.

“You claim to protect when all you did was corrupt!” the Hierophant thundered. “Were it not for you and your sacrilegious sorcery, our people would still walk among us—rather than joining the Lifegiver in ash and flame!”

His priests nodded fervently, swinging their burners in agreement, smoke rising like accusations.

“Indeed, things could have gone better—that’s true,” the creature replied mildly. “But you were fortunate to have men like him there. From what I witnessed yesterday, without his actions your whole army would already be nothing but memory.”

It took me a moment to realize the creature was pointing at me—with its nose.

Every set of eyes in the tent turned toward me at once.

“Do not burden me with your opinions, daimon,” the Hierophant spat, venom dripping from every word. He seized a length of the chain in his hands.

“Gehenne Ferum,” he whispered.

The links began to glow—first a faint orange, then deepening, spreading along the entire length until they blazed a furious red.

The hiss of searing flesh rose from the creature’s forearms, and for a fleeting moment the stench of burning meat drowned out the sweetness of incense.

The creature let out a bellowing scream as the Hierophant released the chains. The glow faded quickly, the metal darkening, leaving the being trembling in its chair. Beads of sweat streamed down its protruding brow, and its eyes bulged wide with pain.

“That should be enough, Your Reverence,” I called out—a vain attempt to stir some mercy before the Hierophant’s next move.

“Are you afraid I’ll hurt your precious admirer, Praefectus?” he hissed back, his words sharp as fangs.

I pressed on. “I believe it would serve our cause better to keep the creature in a state able to speak, Your Reverence.”

I saw the objection form on his lips, but he swallowed it. He knew as well as I that my words would be difficult to deflect.

I caught the puzzlement in Felix’s eyes at my defense of the creature, but I trusted that his faith in my judgment would let him see past his own feelings toward it.

“Very well, Praefectus—your point is clear,” the Hierophant finally said, before turning his attention back to the creature.

“Now then,” he added, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “where were we?”

The creature lifted its head to meet his gaze.

“What master do you serve, daimon? What corrupt spirit lent you your strength?” the Hierophant demanded, impatience edging his voice.

“We serve no master, sir,” the creature managed to reply—its voice quieter now, but still sharp with intellect.

“And we are, for the most part, secular. Gods, spirits, apparitions—none for us, sir, no.”
A faint smirk curled across its lips, revealing a long, white canine gleaming in the dim light.

A collective gasp escaped both the clergy and us alike at the sound of such blasphemy.

The Hierophant rose to his feet and struck the creature across the face. A burst of light flared on impact, erasing every shadow from the tent.

The creature went limp, its head snapping back before drooping forward, unconscious. A scorched handprint—perfect and white-hot—marked its cheek.

“That will be enough for now,” His Reverence said at last. “Take it out of my sight.”

He gestured for the priests to remove the body and place it back in its prison. They obeyed without a word.

He turned his attention to Felix suddenly. “Legatus Varian, isn’t it?” he asked, his tone dismissive. “Would you grant us a moment with your Praefectus?” It was less a question than a command.

“Of course, Your Reverence,” Felix replied, and followed after the priests—though not before giving me a glance heavy with worry.

The Hierophant waited until the tent flap fell closed behind him, then spoke again.
“Take a seat, Praefectus. You, too, have some explaining to do.”
He gestured invitingly toward the chair where the creature had sat only moments before.