Unearth The Shadows

05

Heron Her Lomeon | 6th day of Sprout season

The main chapel of the domain was a tower built with the finest blocks of dark river rock. Each was sculpted in horizontal arcs, the whole docked tightly to confer the edifice the form of a wide, round column standing in the main courtyard of the domain. The dome-shaped stained glass at its top appeared stale under faint dawnlight, drawn with blue patterns of The Ancients, each sectioned by irregular golden borders.

Heron rubbed his eyes as he strolled toward the entry door of the edifice, drowsy from sleep cut short.

The first hours of the day made for a scarce number of prayers in the chapel. And the remnant cold still lingered, further ruling out attendance from the domain's residents. But as he set foot on the stoop this morning, he noticed a light already burned in the holy place, glimmering on the edges of the bulky metal door.

Heron considered the possibilities of a new companion of mid-week prayers as he marched up the stairs — among the new apprentice theologists there for their clerical duties, or barrack guards finally reminded of the praise owed to the gods at mid-week day.

He halted when he caught the glimpse of the man kneeling at the center of the chapel, his hand traveling to the silver pendant of the Trefoil of Souls around his neck.

Father.

Lomeon adopted a stance of complete submission to The Ancients, eyes turned up, strongest hand balled into a fist and tucked against his chest. He murmured unintelligible praise and was bathed in a mixture of feeble lights: candle fire and the glare descending from the stained glass topping the chapel overhead.

It was indecent to eavesdrop on a moment meant to be intimate among the spirits and a man. But Heron urged to reach the sculpted base of the stairs climbing to the altar. To listen to Lomeon's pleas.

Regardless, if The Ancients willed to exert justice, Lomeon would be burned on the spot. A man who indulged in adultery with married servants while his wife was dying outside the palace wasn't unlike the assassin or the blasphemous. The Ancients should see Lomeon's soul cast into the Order of the Shadows, caged into nothingness, and stripped of any right of Purification.

Lomeon stood slothfully, performed a bow towards the altar, and caught sight of Heron when he spun on his heels. His stroll on the carpet stretching from the entry to the altar was lazy, footsteps muffled by the quilted layer underneath.

Heron didn't budge.

"Son," Lomeon said, voice more wavering than his stance as he brushed past the door's threshold. His attempt at a smile came out listless. "I believed you would be here," Lomeon said. "Like all mid-week days."

His father had prepared for this encounter. "That is why you came?"

"I came to pray." Lomeon glanced around the chapel as if taking in its grandeur. "Unlike you, I don't do it nearly enough. If the Ancients receive Servyna's soul for Purification it will be attributed to you only."