A sea of calm dies as the seconds pass. The reverence, devotion, and sanctity filling the room slowly transform. More sisters turn to see the disruption. Alarm and panic spread like a contagious disease, beginning in the back rows and moving pew by pew until even those at the front cry out in warning.
A half dozen brave sisters rise and face us.
With determined steps, I stride forward, blades lowered but ready. I tighten my grip around the handles and roll my wrists, feeling the weight and balance of the steel.
My breaths are heavier than usual, but even and tempered. My mind is set to this task as I ignore the faces before me and think only of the days ahead.
Then it begins.
The edge of my blade slices diagonally across the first maiden’s chest. Blood blooms in a wide arc, splashing outward and hitting the wall, floor, and pew. I force her name from my mind. To think it is to invite feeling, and what I do tonight, I do with a cold heart and calculated precision, serving a higher calling than that of these women now.
I made my decision earlier. My time for doubts has long passed. After prayer and meditation, I chose my service in this way over that of my sisters and our Order. Being His blade required absolute faith, and I believe—not only in the future, but in this new path he’s laid before me.
If I were, as Grand Minister Judiah said, selected in these last days to be a weapon, then stepping into this final role meant abandoning all thought of guilt.
So I feel not a shred of it as crimson spills down the first maiden’s frock. The cut is deep, fatal, opening flesh from shoulder to hip. Her cry of pain and outrage echoes up to the rafters of the monastery. As she falls, maidens scream in horror and attempt to flee, pushing one another in their desperation to escape. Betrayal becomes a song sung throughout the room as the other maidens and I cut down those closest to us.
Though unarmed, an older sister, ten years my senior, faces me. She weaves out of range of my blade before it can make contact, meeting my onslaught with practiced precision. She moves through her superior training in the art of combat, every step controlled, every motion deliberate. A fruitless endeavor, but I respect her refusal to yield.
Some of her hits land true. Others I successfully dodge. When an opening presents itself, I don’t hesitate to move in for the kill.
Her blond hair is bound in a severe braid, as custom demands. Memories of the years we’ve spent together try to invade my thoughts, but I force them to the back of my mind as my blade slices across her neck. The braid is cut clean through and falls to the floor. Her head does not. It jerks violently back as a river of red spills down her chest. Her knees buckle, and her body tumbles forward.
I turn and continue down the aisle. Not rapidly, since there is no need. Escaping us is not an option. So I hunt methodically and cut down any sister within reach.
In my periphery, I see one of the other Chosen doing the same. The third intercepts those who flee to the sides, attempting to avoid our path.
I had hoped Rayla, if no one else, would be the one mirroring my assault. But earlier she showed no sign of it. As the number of dead sisters rises, my doubt grows. I know her movements. We have been partners and opponents in training since we were children.
Neither of the other Chosen is her.
But it is not until I step over her lifeless body that it is confirmed. She did not fall to my blade, but rather to my inability to communicate the secrets caged behind the steel walls of my mind. Secrets gleaned from private lessons with Grand Minister Judiah, from studying divine text, from devout listening during sermons, and from my unwavering belief that the Good Book is not merely a written history of the ages of man, but a prophetic guide for The End of Days.
Rayla read the same texts. She sat beside me through every sermon. She studied as if her life depended on it, yet her heart ceases to beat while mine jackrabbits behind my rib cage.
The thought riots within me as I quicken my assault.
I allow the emotion in, but only to fuel my attack on those who remain, until it is done.
The quiet, when it finally comes, resonates. It is louder than the chaos, somehow. As if the dead haunt the silence.
I still hear their cries of betrayal and outrage in the back of my mind, and I suspect I will for some time.
Perhaps that is as it should be. Their screams serve as a sacred reminder of what I have sacrificed to prove myself worthy. This is only the first of many tasks asked of me. But in this, I have done my duty.
This is why we must not fail. Otherwise, all this spilled blood will be in vain. Ours. Theirs. And each of these deaths serves a higher purpose.
The two other maidens motion me toward them, ready to complete our task, reminding me that we are not done, and the hunt is to continue throughout the rest of the monastery.
There are close to a dozen living members of the Order still, ministers, and the eldest sisters who preside over us in one way or another. Once we produce the keys and unlock the nave doors, we move through the tunnels and chambers, searching them out. Before the night ends, they too will join our fallen sisters and be reunited with our Holy Redeemer.
Grand Minister Judiah stressed to each of us that, after today, it is imperative that we alone remain bearers of the truth learned here. Only later did he seek me out in the privacy of my room and give me, and me alone, further instruction. One final act I alone have committed to. The other two Chosen do not yet realize my duplicity. They are unaware of what I have done and what I will do to ensure my survival and success.
But by dawn, they will know. I will resume the hunt alone.
When I wake, I will scour the earth for the Harbingers of destruction, the demons on horseback who even now labor to bring the apocalypse foretold in the Good Book to fruition. And only when their blood stains my blades will I rest and meet the others.
After retrieving the sacred key from the lifeless form of Minister Alterre, we use it to unlock the curio cabinet in his private quarters. Inside rests the chalice said to have been used by the Holy One at the Last Supper. It is inscribed with ancient runes and sacred text, and when I take my turn to admire it, the metal hums with a living energy against my palm.
