Anthegenian Cycle

Note: The fragments I'm poking at lately cover Iria and Albion's early days as ward and guardian, and later, subordinate and superior in the Sophist Inquisition. They will probably never appear in the Silver Grove main story (partly because I feel their emotional nature comes off as too overbearing), but comprise a part of the backstory that at the moment, inspires me.

From the apex of the bell tower, Iria stepped out onto the ledge, her toes an inch from the edge as she gazed up at the storm-tossed clouds. Below her, the twenty floor drop yawned periliously; the lights of the street far below blurred against the droplets on her spectacles. The wind whipped at her clothing, strong enough to steal her breath away, to stagger her precarious balance.

Slowly Iria spread her arms wide, poised to embrace the sky above her. She tilted her head up, as a lover gazing upon her beloved, her lips slightly parted to taste the rain. The wind pushed back roughly, flattening her against the wall, tearing at the pins binding her braid against the back of her head. The coiled strands unraveled, whipping like livewires in the tempest, pale as silvered lightning against the granite stone of the tower.

It will all have to be eliminated, Albion thought, replacing his gloves on his hands with grim resolution. Their sin is too grave for the privilege of survival.

A whisper and a rustle of chains diverted his attention to a corner of the room. Another wretched creature? Rage and apprehension spiked in the High Inquisitor's chest as he swept his light globe toward the source of the sound.

My gods.

A birdcage as tall as the ceiling rested in the corner, partially obscured by drapes of dark cloth. Kneeling in its center was a girl, no older than sixteen or seventeen, her shackled hands clenched in fervent prayer. Waif-like, with stringy, unkempt blonde hair, she bowed her head with her eyes tightly shut and whispered the words to a hymn of deliverance he recognized instantly from the Book of Sophia.

In this heathen place? Albion stepped closer, and when he did, the girl stopped praying and lifted her eyes, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. She was human. Her eyes were the azure of a clear winter sky. Her wrists and ankles were rough and scarred, signs of a prolonged and ceaseless captivity. She was the culmination of decades of work, the one shining success of the Mornes' butchery of a career.

Divine Sophia, forgive me for what I must do.