Chapter 16

Orlan walked through the vast, hallowed halls of the temple dedicated to his divine patron—Uriel, Flame of God and Guardian of Sacred Truth. Every step echoed beneath the towering ceilings, carved from polished marble that shimmered under the golden light of enchanted braziers. Ornate mosaics covered the floor beneath his feet, each tile forming sacred patterns that radiated outwards like fire in motion.

This temple stood proudly in the heart of Silvercross, the holy capital of the faith—a city second only to the royal capital, yet first in religious influence. Here, temples to the archangels pierced the sky, but none as grand as Uriel’s.

Orlan had labored centuries to rise through the ranks and claim the coveted title of Archpriest. Unlike Earth, where such a position offered little more than ceremonial honors, in this world it bestowed real power. Uriel’s blessings were not symbolic. The archangel granted him prolonged life, divine magic, and authority far beyond mortal station. Though Orlan had lived for over one thousand years, his appearance was that of a man in his prime—broad-shouldered, fair-skinned, with gleaming white hair and sharp olive-green eyes. His tunic, pure white and trimmed with sacred gold, shimmered with expensive enchantments.

Despite his title, direct communion with Uriel was rare. The archangel had only spoken to Orlan twice in his entire life. Messages, when they came, were usually delivered by lesser angels—regal, winged beings who managed divine affairs from afar. Even these were uncommon, arriving perhaps once every fifty years, bearing trivial tasks like slaying a demonspawn or saving some wretched soul. Orlan never concerned himself with such things. He would pass those errands down to lesser priests and return to the pleasures of his life uninterrupted.

His temple, though grand, was only one of his many residences. He owned four palace-like estates scattered across Silvercross, each more opulent than the last. His nights were filled with decadent feasts, music, and laughter. Young women, enchanted by his charm and power, danced through the halls while personal chefs served divine cuisine and rare vintages of celestial wine. His guests were nobles, high priests, and sometimes even archpriests of rival archangels. The elite of Silvercross danced at his word.
The city itself was circular, enclosed by multiple ringed walls. Each layer moving outward from the center grew poorer and more desperate. Not that Orlan gave it any thought. Someone had to toil, after all. He certainly wouldn’t be caught hunting in the woods or toiling in the fields. Occasionally, lesser nobles or priests would organize hunts to deal with corrupted beasts or undead abominations summoned by demon-worshipers—those wretches mockingly called Demonkissers. These heretics lurked in the lowest parts of the city, and their mischief sometimes disrupted the food supply when they cursed wildlife. When hunters died, the supply of fresh meat for Orlan's banquets dwindled. That, more than anything, warranted intervention.

He found it amusing, in a cruel way. The city’s poorest often starved, waiting for someone brave or desperate enough to deal with the beasts. When the temple finally deigned to intervene, it became a public spectacle—parades, blessings, and theatrical farewells for those going to slay what were usually weak, malformed demons. The commoners hated it, especially when they had to surrender more of their meager harvests to feed the clergy. But Orlan felt no guilt. If they wanted to eat, they should be stronger.
As he strode deeper into the temple, the sacred statues lining the corridor loomed over him. Each was over twenty meters tall, depicting Uriel in various divine poses—wreathed in flames, casting judgment, or holding aloft the Sword of Illumination. Their presence was majestic, overwhelming, and made Orlan feel powerful by association. Tonight, he was hosting a ball in one of his mansions, and this time he had something special prepared—an elven dancer.

Elves rarely performed for humans. They viewed themselves as superior. But when shown pain, even they could be made to sing and dance like angels. The two elven slaves in his personal residence were symbols of status and dominance—both feared and envied. And tonight, their performance would dazzle his guests. The thought made him smile as he moved toward the rear exit, eager to avoid the tide of younger priests who always sought his favor.

Predictably, one of them stepped forward.

“Greetings, Archpriest Orlan. What a blessing it is to see you today,” the man said, bowing so deeply that his nose nearly touched the floor. The polished surface reflected his bald scalp, a traditional symbol of humility among priests.

Orlan, the only priest who kept his hair, had started that tradition five centuries ago—on a whim.
“Of course, my son. I live only to serve the Great One. Nothing more, nothing less,” he replied with a serene nod, masking his irritation. Too much praise could be exhausting.

He quickened his pace, weaving through the sacred corridor as divine chants echoed softly from the inner sanctum. He could almost taste the wine already. The angels might live in glory for eternity, but Orlan was content with ruling in their shadow—so long as the wine flowed, and the elves danced.


Yet Orlan could not take a single step forward. His heart froze mid-beat as a presence filled the sacred hall, radiant and overwhelming. The voice of his patron, Uriel, Guardian of Divine Truth, echoed directly within his mind.

"Orlan. Emperor Tiberius has been freed from his prison. Now, someone possessing the amulet walks this world. Ensure that this knowledge does not spread. And ensure that we secure the amulet which holds Tiberius’s soul."

Uriel’s voice was melodic and serene, impossibly calm, exactly as Orlan had always imagined it. Despite the gentleness of its tone, sweat ran like cold water down his back. The implications were staggering. That Tiberius had returned was not just dangerous. It was a catastrophe. Whoever held the amulet now controlled the key to ultimate dominion, not only over this world but also over the distant realms once linked through ancient portals.

In the time of Tiberius, he had ruled more than a single planet. His empire had stretched across a network of worlds. Portals had allowed him to travel freely between them. Some of those realms had once been home to beings who could rival his strength, but few had ever dared to rise against him. His power had been unmatched. His name alone had brought kings to their knees. Most worlds had not resisted. They had begged for the privilege of joining his empire.

Now, if even a fraction of his former enemies or allies still lived, if spies still walked the shadows of this planet, they would feel the disturbance. They would come. Some were powerful enough to crush armies in moments. If they discovered that Tiberius’s soul was no longer sealed, chaos would follow. The fragile peace would collapse completely. The alliance between angels and demons, once forged in desperation, would dissolve in an instant.

This was no longer sacred duty. It was a race against time. A war fought in silence and shadows.
Orlan’s breath became shallow. His hands trembled slightly as he imagined the amulet within his grasp. Power beyond imagining. A relic that could raise him above kings and archpriests. With such power, he could shape the world. Perhaps even reach beyond it and claim dominion over other planets.
A quiet voice broke the silence, dragging him back to the present.

"Is something wrong, Archpriest Orlan?" the younger man asked. He glanced up for a moment before quickly lowering his gaze again.

"I have received a divine command from our patron," Orlan replied, steadying his voice. "The Emperor has returned. The amulet has surfaced. We must recover it. Kill the bearer before they unlock its full potential. If we fail, the world will fall."

He paused and looked into the distance, already weighing the consequences. "No word of this is to reach the capital or any major city. All information related to this must be silenced. Immediately."

The young priest’s eyes widened in alarm and awe. "I am honored to serve, Archpriest. We will depart at once. If we head to the sea, we might intercept them before they reach land."

"Good," Orlan said, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder and lifting him from his bowed posture. Being allowed to stand in the archpriest’s presence was a rare and precious honor. "What is your name, my son?"
"I am Bjorn, Your Excellency," he said with a proud smile that radiated joy.

"Then go, Bjorn. Bring the amulet to this holy temple, where we, as vessels of our divine patron, shall guard it. Let none take it from us."

"Yes, Archpriest. I will gather our brothers and sisters. The amulet will soon be in our hands," Bjorn replied with enthusiasm. He could barely stand still and shifted from one foot to the other with barely contained energy.

"Yes. The amulet will be ours," Orlan whispered, his voice quiet and thoughtful. He was speaking more to himself than to the zealous priest in front of him.

It was vital to move quickly. Other archpriests might already be searching. Or worse, the Demonkissers might act before them.

Time was already slipping away.

<--

What Orlan did not know was that he was not alone. Perched silently in one of the high arched windows, a small black raven had been listening to every word. Its beady eyes gleamed with unnatural intelligence as it observed the final exchange. When Orlan turned and departed to rally his fellow priests, the raven stirred. With a quiet rustle of feathers, it leapt into the warm evening air.

The city of Silvercross stretched out beneath the creature like a stone labyrinth, bathed in hues of gold and amber from the setting sun. The raven glided low over rooftops, its dark feathers catching flecks of orange light. From above, the city resembled a vast citadel, its buildings rising in layers like a crown. At the center stood towering structures of marble and gold. The farther one moved from the heart of the city, the more decay took hold. On the third ring, rooftops bore holes large enough to fall through, and the white stone roads gave way to muddy brown trails where rainwater lingered for days. Beyond that came clusters of wooden homes, where multiple families shared single rooms and hunger gnawed at every shadow.

In these forgotten districts, crime flourished unchecked. The city guard never ventured this far, and those who lived here had long learned to fend for themselves. But crime was not the only thing that thrived in the shadows. The raven circled a building that stood apart from the rest, its walls cracked and choked by ivy. It had once been a church, though no one dared call it that now. Locals whispered that it was cursed, and not even the boldest children dared to approach.

The raven did not hesitate. It slipped through a shattered window and descended the dusty interior. It flew through a collapsed hallway and down a stone staircase, deeper into the earth. The steps were clean, free of dust and cobwebs. Someone had been using them.

At the base of the stairs stood a thick wooden door that looked oddly intact compared to the ruin surrounding it. The raven landed before it and tapped three times with its beak. The soft knocks echoed faintly. On the other side, something stirred. A metal bolt slid free with a heavy click, and the door creaked open. A tall man stood in the frame, one eye hidden beneath a black patch and the tattoo of a serpent coiled above his brow. The raven ignored him and flew past, spiraling down a deeper stairwell carved into the rock.

This narrow stairwell led to an underground chamber that lay hidden over a hundred meters beneath the surface. Dim torchlight flickered along the walls, casting shadows that danced like spirits across the stone. The air grew colder as the raven descended, the weight of the earth pressing in from all sides. Finally, the stairs opened into a vast subterranean hall.

Grotesque statues lined the perimeter, each one more disturbing than the last. Some bore monstrous forms, like a red lion-headed beast with four clawed arms. Others appeared nearly human, cloaked in shadowed robes and wielding twin scythes like the hands of death itself. At the far end of the chamber stood a blood-stained altar of dark stone. A woman lay upon it, her eyes closed, her body still. Blood trickled from the altar through carved channels in the floor, feeding the base of the statues in a silent ritual.

The smell of blood, sharp and metallic, filled the cavern. It clung to the air like mist. The raven flew forward unfazed, landing gracefully on the shoulder of the lone priest standing beyond the altar. Dressed in flowing black robes, the man radiated an eerie authority. His presence seemed to pull light away from him.

"What news do you bring?" he asked, his voice rusted and raw, yet filled with power that rang off the stone walls. He was an archpriest in service to a demon, and this was their hidden temple. While the angelic priests thrived in opulence near the city’s heart, these demon worshippers had turned their attention to the forgotten lower rings, where the desperate made for perfect prey. Their temples were carved deep into the bones of the city, far from watchful eyes.

The man’s name was Varus, and he served the Reaper, one of the stronger archdemons. He listened intently as the raven delivered its report in a series of rasping cries and unnatural clicks. Though its voice was that of a bird, Varus understood it perfectly. His temple trained spies and assassins, and intelligence was valued nearly as highly as bloodshed. Their network spanned the kingdom, and few secrets escaped their grasp.

A slow smile curled across Varus’s lips as the raven finished. His single eye glittered with cruel satisfaction.

"So it is true," he murmured. "Someone has found Tiberius and taken the amulet. It would be a tragedy if such a relic ended up in the hands of those pampered fools above."

He stepped back from the altar, his voice rising with renewed determination.

"I will send word to all our brothers and sisters across the kingdom. We shall be the first to find the bearer of the amulet. It is only a matter of time before the angels and their lapdogs begin their search. When they do, I want to be able to present results to the Reaper should he call upon me."

His words echoed through the chamber, swallowed by the dark stone like a vow.


<author note>

So we have been a good way into the story which mean its time to ask for your feedback.
What do you think so far? Do you like it? Are their some who are already hooked and cant get free ;)

Dont worry doesnt need to be specific even an "I like it" is good enough for me.

Cheers

<author note>