Thrysa’s smile widened as she ladled another helping of chicken soup into a roughly carved wooden bowl, handing it to the small child in front of her. “Careful now, it’s hot,” she said gently. The child stared up at her with wide, questioning eyes. Thrysa pointed across the gymnasium with a wrinkled finger. “If you head that way, there are warm winter clothes for you. And that line over there? The nice man will give you some toys and snacks for later.”

  The Congregation had transformed the local gymnasium into a hub of activity. Before arriving in Velnias, they had collected donations from the people of Dej Khov and the towns they passed through on their journey by train. At each stop they had taken time to track down undead –or, more often, the undead had found them – to join the March of Purification. Building trust was key to their mission, and they made a point of using some of the donations to support the communities they visited. It was a way to show their intent, to prove they were there to help, not just take and harm.

  The atmosphere on the peninsula was tense. Ever since Spearhead’s death weeks ago it felt as though everyone was holding their breath, waiting for a disaster they couldn’t possibly prepare for. People needed hope, something to believe in, and so the Cardinal – the speaker for The Heart That Beats True– had declared the march. Velnias was their final stop, and likely the one that would take the longest, the capital was always teeming with the abominations. So far, they had found over one hundred and eighty undead. Of those, one hundred and sixty had chosen to join the march, while the remaining twenty had been executed. Once they rounded up the abominations in Velnias, they would return to Dej Khov to perform the ritual – the ritual that could cleanse them of the original sin.

  The undead were a grim reminder of sentient’s darkest impulses. They came into being when someone consumed the meager amount of essence directly from another person, a monstrous act that the world punished by twisting their soul – their body and mind reflecting their sin. These creatures were cursed to prey on others, often the frail and helpless, driven by an insatiable need for sentient flesh. It was a cruel irony: the very act that granted them power also stripped them of their humanity.

  Some hadn’t chosen this fate; they had been tricked or forced into it. A single act of malice – a poisoned stew, for instance – could doom an entire village. But once transformed, they lost themselves. They became monsters, and monsters had to be dealt with.

  Yet, there was hope. The purification ritual, gifted upon them by The Brightest Star and their emissary The Heart That Beats True offered a chance at redemption. Not everyone survived the process and no one knew the criteria for those who lost their sin and returned to the living and those who burned. For those who emerged, renewed, it was a second chance – a return to the fold of the living, free from the original sin. Thrysa had seen it herself: the moment when the light returned to their eyes, when they remembered what it meant to be human.

  When Thrysa heard about the march, she jumped at the opportunity to join. It wasn’t as glamorous as she had imagined, especially since the Cardinal had allowed the Puritan sect to tag along for muscle. She suspected the Puritans had found more than just the five undead they had reported, but she would never be able to prove it. The Puritans saw no distinction between those who had chosen this path and those who had not, or even those who had learned to regret their folly. To them, the undead were a blight, a corruption to be eradicated the moment it was found. The thought made her sick to her stomach. They’d do the same to her if they ever discover that she was a Verdan, a natural Harbinger, a Brinn to be exact.

  As a Brinn, Thrysa didn’t have a “true” form. She was whoever she appeared to be, her body crafted and molded for purpose. Right now she wore the visage of an old woman with smile lines and wrinkled eyes, a face shaped by a lifetime of kindness. It was a part of her that allowed her to move among humans unnoticed.

  The rest of her shift passed uneventfully. She handed out bowls of hot soup to anyone who wanted one, grateful for the gymnasium’s spacious interior. It was far better than forcing people to wait outside in the cold. The line of people had dwindled to a few stragglers, and the hum of conversation in the gymnasium had softened to a murmur. Thrysa wiped her hands on her apron, glancing around the room. Families huddled together under donated blankets, children played with simple wooden toys, and the scent of soup and bread lingered in the air. For a moment, it almost felt like peace.

  As she set the ladle down into the pot with a light clatter, a young man approached – a puritan, his stern expression softened by a faint smile. He wore the distinctive black and gray robes of his sect, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms marked by faint battle scars. There was a quiet intensity to him, a sense of purpose that made Thrysa pause. She had grown used to the Puritan’s presence, but she still felt a pang of unease whenever one got too close. Still, he had seen this one before, his tone was kind, and his eyes held no malice towards her. Why would they? To him, she was simply an old sister, harmless and devout.

  “Sister,” he said, nodding respectfully. “Let me take over for you. You’ve been at this for hours.”

  She forced herself to relax and handed him the ladle. “Thank you, brother. It’s been a long day. But it's still pleasant.”

  “It has,” he agreed, stepping behind the table. The line was empty now, leaving the table quiet. “It’s lovely isn’t it? Seeing the hope in their eyes?” He gestured to the hubbub of people, sitting in small groups, laughing and eating their meal, his voice tinged with something like reverence. “This is how it should be, warm food, a safe life away from essence”.

  Thrysa studied him for a moment, unsurprised by his earnestness. She was still slightly uneasy by his presence, but she knew deep down this brother was not a bad man, misguided maybe, but his intent was obvious to her. “It is. Though I imagine you see it differently than I do.”

  He chuckled a low, warm sound. “Perhaps. But at the end of the day we all want the same thing.” He paused, his expression thoughtful. “I know you will not give me your blessing for our methods sister, but we do what we must. But perhaps … perhaps a blessing still, for hard decisions. Difficult decisions made with kindness”

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Thrysa’s chest tightened at his words, but she kept her expression neutral. “What is your name brother”

  “Faron”, he nodded at her.

  She didn’t need to think to remember the words. They simply danced gracefully from her tongue, their rhythmic nature almost a chant.

  “May the Heart That Beats True guide your steps,

  Through shadowed paths and trials untold.

  May its rhythm steady your soul

  And its light reveal truth within.

  When doubt clouds your way,

  May you hear its call,

  A whisper in the silence

  A beat in the dark.

  Follow not the lies of the world,

  But the truth that stirs within your chest.

  For the heart that beats true knows itself,

  And the path it reveals is yours alone to walk.

  Go forth with courage,

  And trust in the pulse of the divine.

  For The Heart That Beats True is within you Faron

  Now and always.”

  Faron bowed his head, his shoulders relaxing as though a weight had been lifted. “Thank you sister,” he spoke quietly, eyes closed as he breathed in deeply from the world. “I needed that.”

  Thrysa smiled, “You’re welcome, brother. May your path be clear.”

  As she turned to leave, Faron called after her, his voice gentle. “Ah, before I forget, sister. The Bishop asked to see you. He’s waiting in one of the offices down the hall”

  Thrysa gave a short bow of her head. “Thank you brother, I’ll head there now.

  A minute later Thrysa found herself outside the Bishop's impromptu office, knocking lightly waiting for the Bishop's confirmation before entering, “You wished to see me Bishop?”

  The Bishop was a young woman, in her early thirties, with auburn hair cascading to the middle of her back. Her face was round, full and might have lent itself to a gentle expression if not for the forced coldness she wore instead. A shame, Thrysa thought.

  “Yes, please take a seat”.

  Thrysa did as the Bishop asked, delicately placing her hands in her lap as she waited for the woman to continue. But the Bishop remained silent, her lips pursed, her gaze steady of Thrysa. Finally she spoke, “I believe I asked you to return to your original form in private.”

  Thrysa hesitated for only a moment. Humans sometimes were preoccupied with their own perceptions. Thrysa was Brinn – there was no “original form” except the vine she had been born from. But she understood what the Bishop meant. The form they had first met in. The first form he took after becoming Verdan.

  “My turn then?” Oaklen asked, the words silent in Thyrsa’s mind.

  They met at the barrier of control over the body inside their shared mindscape. “Your turn indeed. Do take care, I believe she is nastier than she lets on.”

  Each held their hand up to the barrier, and each walked through to the other side. Thryssa to join the other souls, and Oaklen to take control of the body.

  Thrysa’s features began to shift. Her legs extended, wrinkles thinned, her hair darkened and shortened. His green eyes flickered with intensity and the softer lines of her face hardened into the sharper angles of a man. In the span of a breath, the older woman had been replaced by Oaklen – a young, green eyed man with tense muscles and a predator’s poise. Blink too slowly, and it seemed as if someone else had taken its place entirely.

  “Thank you Oaklen” the Bishop finally said, an edge of satisfaction in her voice.

  “For you? Anything” Oaklen leaned back against the chair, confidence radiating from him, “so ma’am. What can I do for you?”

  The bishop smiled, pleased, before opening a drawer and sliding a file across the desk. Without waiting for permission, Oaklen began flipping through the pages, skimming the important points.

  “We need a sniffer in the industrial slums, someone with their ear to the ground capable of acting as a rat catcher when needed. Our team has already crafted your persona. You’ll be a respected reporter with gang ties from Coutama, Jim Harven, looking to buy goods and smuggle them into Coutama or the other way round. Late 40’s, a veteran of the War of Bloody Veins. He was a former sheriff before The Great Order and Coutama’s governor failed him with inane policies turning him to a life of crime.”

  Oaklen rolled the idea around his mind, his fingers drumming against the file. His thoughts shifted, and his dissatisfaction with the new persona took root, though he kept it subtle. “Would one of my older identities not work?” Oaklen asked, “It takes time to craft a new ego.”

  As he flipped through the pages, he could see the crafted history. He was certain the new identity would hold up – solid, well constructed, the kind of persona the division excelled at creation. He’d even seen articles from Harven – headlines like “The Great Order oversteps Coutama’s sovereignty” and “Essence: A Fool’s Dream and the Power to match.” Yes, this was a persona that would pass scrutiny. But managing another ego, even an effective one, added weight. They got grumpy if they never got to come out.

  The Bishop shook her head. “I would say yes, but the orders come from higher up. They have particular interest in your target – a gang leader by the name of Viracio. Whatever he’s involved with has them tied in knots, or maybe he’s the key to untangling it all. Either way, none of your older egos would fit this job. No mistakes.”

  Oaklen sighed, as he closed the file with a lazy flick. “Very well. I’ll read the packet over and get started. It’ll take me a few days, and then I’ll be off. What exactly am I fishing for?”

  The Bishop hesitated before speaking, her voice softer than usual. “I’m not sure myself. I have my theories, but whatever’s spooked them, they’re keeping it close to the chest. They don’t want their assumption to cloud your investigation. But they did ask you to keep an eye out for anything related to essence, and anything experimental. How you go about things, I’ll leave that up to you. You tend to work better when I don’t micromanage.”

  Oaklen let out a strained laugh, a grin tugging at his lips. “Well, I couldn’t have said it better myself, ma’am. I won’t disappoint.” He stared down at the file again, giving it a look of pure disdain. “I have some homework to do.”