Kalen gave himself a moment to admire the mural before proceeding down the marble path, at the end of which lay a tarped altar. Passed the altar hung a gold-framed portrait on the wall; it bore the pristine image of a blonde woman in a sumptuous silver gown. Kalen lifted the portrait in place and listened to the ensuing friction of stone against stone. A small section of the wall compressed itself, then slowly railed to the right to reveal a hollow chamber beside. Within lay a staircase descending further into darkness. Carefully, he stepped down to whatever savory secrets lay underneath.

Feeling his way downward, he let the minute light of his lantern guide him along the spiraling wall. It guided him to the flat surface of the lowest room, obliging his gaze as he now beheld rows upon rows of stone coffins. A crypt.

He purposefully trod between the stone until he recognized a grave with an erect, molded symbol from which hung a silver necklace. The symbol, like that of the priestly scepters, was an eight-sided star.

"You slumber in Eternity, away from the strain of this world, yet cannot tell me the provision of such peace... Were you alive, you might regard recent events with my disdain... Perhaps. And I remain indifferent...to events and company."

There was a clay pot above the stone, one of many scattered around the graves. So Kalen withdrew the lantern's candle to ignite the ember. Kneeling before the grave, sniffling, he used his staff for support. "I think my fate is dictated by thy lessons, ever-guiding me in the trials both seen and unseen. There is a treasure vested in me in the form of thy teachings, one that cannot be denied nor lead me astray in the event of our home's perdition."

Sitting in silent meditation, his recollection carried him to the back of a stout man. Trudging on evergreen glades, propped and pressed against hard shoulders, he remembered the grazed bulk of armor shimmering beneath a satin cloak, the long brown hair over a kindly expression and grizzly beard. His words resounding unhindered in Kalen's memories:

"Stricken homeless and without the rightful love to which every child must be succored. I pray, Ihirum, deliverance from that morose yearning. Vengeance. Let not the reaping hinder this life... In that desire, we resort to base instincts failing to distinguish us from devils. I seek that for no man... nor child."

***

Out of the tomb, Kalen immediately resealed the stone passageway and sat against the wall of holy, historic artistry. Slowly, he succumbed to a sweeping desire for rest. And so, immured by the quaint atmosphere of the sanctum, his keen senses slowly simmered into sleep.

***

A harmonious monophony of chanting priests parted Kalen's eyelids. White robes prevailed, stepping forward in a queue. Monks followed a few younger boys observably at the cusp of manhood, walking in their doublets of red, blue, burgundy, gold and more.

Sunlight would consequently enter through the sanctum's doors, igniting its blue and white textures, its epic artistry now emblazoned around the hall. Day brought forth a flattering clarity to the paintings, bestowing subtle animation to the setting.

It was the commencement of a ceremony, so far as Kalen could deduce. Everyone attending shared little more and nothing less than a common serenity through their faith advocated in the uniform chant they sung in tandem with the clergy.

Sundry folk of higher and yet higher eminence followed the priests and priestesses in the hall, forming a distinct rainbow of articles at the crowd's center—their servants and common subjects pressed at the vestibule and even outside the chapel while clergy advanced upon the altar at their path's end, the altar which Kalen rested beside and could now see clearly; overlain with tapestry of blues, whites, and golds, concentric gold suns arrayed in the four corners as white stars spangled the blue filling its center. Atop the tapestry lay a based silver scepter flanked by candles on golden ornaments, another scepter ornamented by that sporadic eight-sided star.

When the baritone ended, the silence signaled the ceremony's commencement. The young ones were lined in front of a single priest in blue robes, a plump man bearing the signature silver scepter in his right hand. Each boy would take a knee, one after another, and the priest waved the scepter with great care, chanting, "Truth against oblivion. Service in lieu of Sloth. Death before dishonor. We are shepherds to the sheep. " And after each recitation, a chorus erupted from the crowd, "Under the guidance of Ihirum," each boy rising to his knees a man.

Kalen adopted the crowd's silence and observed the proceedings with unmitigated interest. He listened to every pronouncement, hearing and watching them sung by the grown men garbed in the resplendent and imposing vestments of knights: Black tabards with white seams and centered with the imagery of laurel wreaths over a sun; they men wore these over ceremonial suits of armor aesthetically varied. Gold and silver hues gilded the audience.

With the last adolescent risen, the chanting ended for the sake of the one priest. "Let all bear witness to these newly anointed knights who shall bear the mark of Ihirum to any who will embrace or defile it. Fine additions to a most coveted order, a vanguard against heresy..."

As the final praises were sung, and as all formal events are disposed to, the chapel witnessed alleviation from its subjected quietude. Cheering began.

Formalities ended, the attendees celebrated by socializing and drinking, but only after giving their personal salutations and blessings to the men of the hour. It was a host of onlookers waiting to congratulate the newly-acquired status of the young knights. As for whence came the fuel for their revelry, several of the elite had arrived with wagons of casks. So long as celebrations steered clear of the Sanctum, the clergy would raise no protest

To be sure he wasn't delusional, Kalen read from the ever-present leather-bound book at his side. "Yes," he affirmed, running his fingers along the lines, "revels in the holy grounds is forbidden." He sighed with a grimace. Keeping his distance from the festivities, he paid particular attention to the newly-inducted knights. With envy, he noted their lot as privileged nobility, silk-wrapped parents present and prepared for the reception. If earnest valor precluded this formality, I'd be fond of such occasions.

***

Bells!

Bells! A sacred occasion battered by the ringing of bells. Everyone gaped at the noise, spirits startled, their society paused for the loud drown of the bell tower.

Kalen succumbed to hot flashes, compelled to reach the wall quickly. And quickly, through the dance of velvets and elegant headdresses, across the green of the quiet courtyard, he ran from ostentation.

The prospect of sudden danger sobered them and built their anxiety. As predisposed, the guards responded to the bells by rallying and racing to prepare. Ill tidings effectively smothered the atmosphere and the previous air of wantonness deteriorated.

I do not foresee Ihirum's hand in what is to come. Fearful deacons on the wall, guards peering nervously beyond the stone, and oblivious guests in the courtyard, the monastery was little less than a petrified eye transfixed on the southern skies.

"Open the gates!" shouted one of the monks, panic guiding his expression. Quickly, the keepers of the gate unbarred the entrance and heaved the doors open.

Kalen reached the gate alongside several knights, in time to witness the rabble of tired and crippled men-at-arms stumbling passed the fortified entrance. "I must see for myself!" he exclaimed.

Up the battlement stairs, atop the north wall, he earned a bird's eye view of the daunting mass; thus succumbed to awe, despairing not for his life but the grand repercussion to befall the monastery. He hated being right about things, so too often hated.

Kalen beheld several thousand men-at-arms gathered like a large wave on the countryside, below a reddening sky: line after line of armor, spears, pikes, and halberds—weapons hoisted backward in the direction of the dark clouds. Black and crimson banners rose high over endless crimson shirts emblazoned with golden wings. Kalen recognized the coat of arms; it belonged to an archduke, one he remembered from a compendium of noble lineages...and by reputation.

This army represents the Archduke of Voracia, the holder of the title widely regarded as a vindictive conqueror. "Indeed, war has returned to this realm, our sins more overwrought with penance than should be deemed necessary."

Then and there, every man on the walls stared across the field and to see darkness encroaching near their ring, a tide of marching men gaining on a rabble of defeated warriors who had yet to reach the safety.

"Make haste and retrieve the wounded!" ordered a stout voice. Kalen peered down the battlement stairs to witness the commanding man quelling the crowd. He stood on the steps beside the gate: long black hair, imperiously tall, and striking blue eyes. The fraught and interrogative eyes of the people lifted to his oration and hung off his every word. Theirs was a crowd of commoners, nobles, and clergy who found no other confidence than in his presence as they huddled near the gate and lent him their ears, witnessing black armor that accentuated his commanding demeanor and expanded his presence. "The hour is dire!" he continued. "The clergy shall see to the wounded. Those capable, you know who you are, see to the defense of this sacred ground. "Women, children, seek shelter. Man the walls!"

The black knight had taken charge swiftly, his every word toned by experience. Thus, the monks took after the urgency in his voice and assisted every surviving soldier to pass the gates and reach the courtyard. Meanwhile, non-combatants retreated deeper into the interior.