The Sanctified did not celebrate the old world’s traditions.
They studied them. They dissected them. They stripped them of their chaos and reshaped them into something worthy of order.
And so, on the 14th day of the second month, under the watchful gaze of the Eye, the Sanctified did not speak of love.
They spoke of devotion.
The halls of the Sanctified stronghold were lit with low-burning fires, their embers casting jagged shadows along the stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, a mix of oil and charred herbs, meant to purify the weak-willed and burn away distraction.
Watcher sat in silence within the chapel, his hands folded before him, listening.
Tonight, the faithful gathered—not for revelry, not for indulgence, but for judgment.
Valentine’s Day, as the old world had known it, was a sickness.
A disease of the heart. A corruption of the mind.
The Sanctified did not speak of love as the old world had—as a bond of desire, a weakness of flesh and spirit.
They spoke of true love. Love as sacrifice. Love as obedience.
Because love, as the old world knew it, had led to disorder. To ruin. To the Fall.
But under Magnus, love had been given purpose.
Magnus himself stood at the front of the gathering, his iron mask gleaming in the firelight. He did not shout, did not demand. His voice was steady, his tone absolute.
“The old world gave its heart freely, without thought or caution.”
“It let love become weakness, and so it perished.”
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“But we do not love as they did. We love through loyalty. Through discipline. Through obedience.”
The crowd listened, unmoving. They had heard these words before. They would hear them again. But still, they absorbed them.
Magnus turned his gaze across the faithful. “True devotion is not words whispered in the dark. It is sacrifice, given freely.”
His masked gaze fell on a pair of kneeling Sanctified—a man and a woman, their hands bound before them, their heads bowed in submission.
Watcher observed them carefully. He did not speak. He was here to see.
Magnus stepped toward them. “Do you trust each other?”
The woman’s voice was soft but certain. “Yes, Watcher.”
Magnus nodded. “Do you love one another?”
“Yes, Watcher.”
Magnus knelt slightly, his iron mask mere inches from them.
“Then prove it.”
A Sanctified disciple stepped forward, placing a knife between them. Its blade was ceremonial, etched with the markings of the Eye.
A gift.
A burden.
A test.
Magnus stood tall again. “One of you must choose. One must give. One must take.”
The kneeling man’s breath shuddered.
The woman’s fingers trembled near the blade.
Watcher remained still. Watching.
This was the way of Sanctified devotion.
Love was not indulgence.
Love was submission.
Love was sacrifice.
The old world had fallen because love was given without cost. But here, under Magnus’s order, it had weight. Meaning. Proof.
The couple hesitated.
Jace, standing near the back, grinned.
Sister Amara, standing closer, did not.
Magnus waited.
Then, after a long, agonizing silence—
The woman took the blade.
Her fingers curled around the hilt.
The man did not flinch.
He accepted.
She inhaled sharply, then plunged the knife into his chest.
The Sanctified did not gasp.
They did not weep.
They watched as the man fell, as the woman held him, whispering his name before he was gone.
Magnus stepped forward, gently tilting her chin upward.
She was crying. But tears were not defiance.
They were proof.
Proof that she had loved truly.
That she had given what was required.
Magnus nodded slowly. “You have passed.”
The woman exhaled, unsteady but resolute.
The body was taken away.
And the Sanctified murmured their prayers.
Watcher sat in silence long after the ritual had ended.
The fire burned low. The incense smoldered.
Love had no place here.
Only order.
And yet—
As Watcher traced the scar across his own palm, an old wound from a time before the pillar, before he became what he was—
He wondered if, in another life, he had once loved freely.
And if so…
Had he been the one to hold the knife?
New name for Watcher
