This is my son. His name is Claude. He fusses during baths, and he doesn't like anyone to touch his head. He's not easily entertained, doesn't appreciate the shake of a rattle or the softness of a stuffed toy. His smiles are not easily earned, but on the rare occasion he does, it's the most pure and beautiful thing you'll ever see.

He's all I have left in this world, but I can't give him the life he deserves. And I'm praying that whoever is reading this letter can. Please. There's money in the bag, along with all his belongings. I'll send more when I can.

I'm in your debt.

Claude folded the letter and tucked it away with the others. He could tell his mother wanted to write more, but the paper was short and he guessed her time was shorter. His mother had tucked that letter away in a basket with him, left him on a porch in Lehm over twenty-six years ago, and it was one of the few things he would fight and die for.

He zipped his bag and kicked his trunk across the empty floor to the door. All his furniture and some of his clothes had gone to the refugees who now called the Cathedral their home, and he found it difficult to care for the few pieces he kept when he had the ability to make more.

At least some good had come out of the Divine City's predatory tactics. They could take all their Priests and their gaudy trinkets, but couldn't carry the building. Outside his window, workers laid foundations and stones, building up a new residential area to the north.

Hammering and sawing had been his wake up call for the past few months. The schoolhouses were taking shape, and the Council planned to break ground for another residential district south of the main street. To think half a year ago this place was nigh flattened by the netherborne. Now it was a refuge for those fleeing the scourge.

There were no gods watching from above, he mused. They were down here with them, and one of them was named Octavia. She was divine intervention made flesh.

Claude shouldered his bag and gave his room a final farewell. Goodbye to the stain on the rug where he'd spilled dye, to the hairline crack in the window caused by violent hail, and to the crown moulding he'd stared at for hours while daydreaming.

He wouldn't miss any of it. This priesthood had been a means to an end for him, and while it had gotten him what he wanted, he still held it as the worst decision he'd made. When he'd left Lehm at sixteen to travel to the Divine City, he hadn't known what sin and symphony meant. The significance it held. He'd learn it was a necromancer's oath early in his classes. And it had made him ill. His mother was a necromancer, and he'd joined the organisation that hunted them for sport. He'd wanted out, but joining the priesthood meant signing your soul away to their cause for years.

One could only leave if they got authorization from a high-ranking member. And said authorizations were rarer than a blue moon. He counted himself fortunate to have been placed under Sicero's command, or he may have stayed stuck in the Priesthood until he perished.

Claude stepped into the Cathedral's front yard and inhaled a cool summer breeze laced with sawdust and lilies and a bold new horizon. The soft notes of a violin undercut the sounds of construction, and his euphoria. Chantal sat near the fire pit, eyes closed, and bow teasing a sombre melody from the strings of a violin. She was fallow of skin and curly of hair like the former High Priest. Perhaps from the desert as well.

He hadn't met their resident necromancers. Not formally at least. They spent more time with the Council than everyone else, and he spent more time with needles and cloth than anyone else. But he'd caught glimpses of them during breakfast and supper, and whenever he elected to leave his workshop and socialise like a normal person.

"I heard tell you're going to the archives." Chantal's voice rang clear despite the noise.

Claude wasn't sure how he felt about this one. He'd never seen her do anything but scowl. She maintained at least an arm's length of distance from everyone, including her own colleague.

"You heard right." He pushed his trunk further down the path with the tip of his boot.

"A former priest, going to the archives? I'm not sure if you are very brave or very stupid." And there it was, the scowl, tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"I'm known for being both, actually." Claude wheeled his trunk over the paving stones to the waiting carriage. Sicero stood nearby with Tallis and their second resident necromancer, Belle. She seemed at least marginally more bearable to be around. She knelt in front of Tallis and showed him a giant beetle she'd found in the woods.

"Its wings are iridescent, see?" she said, twisting her hand this way and that so the insect's wings caught the morning light.

Claude cringed and swallowed the bile pooling in his mouth. Of all the things she could be fascinated with, it had to be bugs.

The High Priest clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck out there, Claude."

"And best of luck to you too, my lord." He snorted when Sicero cringed. "How long do you think you can hide from the Divine City? They're not going to allow you leave forever."

Sicero shrugged a shoulder. "I'll deal with it when the time comes. Give Quintus and Jaredeth the Council's regards."

"And don't forget to give Miss Octavia our letters," Tallis added.

Claude rolled his eyes and shoved his trunk in the back of the carriage. "For the hundredth time, Tallis, if I see Octavia, I'll give them to her."

"Okay, but sometimes you can be forgetful."

"Alright, I'll just forget to give her yours, then."

Tallis paled. "Wait, I was just kidding."

"So was I." He ruffled the boy's hair and climbed in beside his luggage. "I left a little something for you in my workshop. Be sure to get it before they clean the place out."

"Really?" A grin lit up the boy's face. "Thanks Mister Claude, and have a safe trip."

"Be good, little man." Claude tried for a smile, something he did rarely, and hoped it looked convincing.

It made his heart heavy to leave Tallis behind. The boy reminded him too much of himself. Alone, deprived of his sense of wonder, and a victim of all the ugly things in this world. He wished he could've taken Tallis with him, but the road ahead was too dark, too uncertain to risk such a young life. He was far better off here, where the scourge would trouble him no more.

The carriage rolled off and Claude leaned his head against the window to take in the sight of Hedalda for what could be the last time. They went over the newly built bridge, the rhythmic clopping of the horse's hooves loud on the smooth stone. The old florist shop drifted by. Levi had gutted and boarded it up pending demolition.

The bellflower trees Octavia had created from the cadavers peeked out between the alley flanking the building. The Council had plans to turn it into a memorial site, with a stone slab dedicated to all who'd fallen to the scourge.

The carriage breached the pillars that marked the village's entrance and rolled into the lush woods beyond. The beaten path was flanked by tall trees, their full canopies only allowing slivers of afternoon sun through.

There had been talks of bringing animals in to replenish the forest fauna lost to the netherborne. According to Beatrix, this place used to have wild rabbits, deer, and even wolves. But that was a long-term goal. Another thing Claude may never see.

The two-hour carriage ride took him out to the port. Boats from kingdoms to the west and south lined the dock, along with carriages transporting cargo. Claude weaved through the mix of sailors and visitors to the only boat bearing Avaly's sparrow crest.

"Leaving already?" Pilar leaned against one of the stone pillars used to moor the ships to the dock, her red Councilor's coat draped on her shoulders—a much better look than the bland white and gold of the priesthood. He never understood what vendetta they had against colour.

"Indeed. Quintus is expecting me."

"I heard it's getting rougher out there. The netherborne are restless. Be careful."

"I always am." Claude looked towards the vast expense of water beyond the bobbing boats. He'd never been to Avaly or any place not under the Divine City's heel, which made this journey more than just about his mother. This was the final nail in the coffin that held his priestly tenure, his final slap in the face of the priesthood. And it was well worth whatever danger lay ahead.

***

Claude was standing at the ship's bow when the port of Avaly came into view. Hundreds of white sails and colourful flags lined the dock. Even a mile out, the sounds of activity reached him. A horn blared every time a boat docked or undocked. The shouts of deckhands facilitating the loading and unloading of cargo, mixed with the sounds of the market beyond the dock and the wind blowing off the sea.

This was the busiest port in the region, by virtue of it being the safest. In the hundreds of years since it was established, the Avalian Empire had only suffered a handful of netherborne attacks, and the scourge had never rooted itself on the peninsula.

Which Claude found awfully suspicious given that most of the region had been wiped out. The Divine City built a Cathedral in this place at some point—one he was almost assigned to. But something happened, his assignment was delayed, and he landed in Hedalda instead.

The Divine City remained tight-lipped about how they lost their hold on the empire. So much so, that learning Avaly had turned from killing necromancers to its King taking one as his lover had come as a shock to even Sicero, who was regarded with the same amount of esteem as the prefects.

The boat slipped between two merchant ships, and the crew moored it to the dock. Passengers flooded the deck, carrying luggage, cargo, and children. Claude dragged his trunk down the gangplank and made his way through the thick stream of bodies and chatter. Body odour and hot air assaulted him from every angle and, coupled with the rush of different languages, made his head spin. Quintus hadn't left instructions for where to meet him or how to proceed once he got to Avaly. He supposed heading to the castle would be the best course of action.

He finally broke free from the crowd and sucked in a breath of cool, salty air. The winding road leading away from the docks was lined with vendors peddling everything from armour to textiles. Carriages clopped by, and a shepherd herded small animals from the street. Not even during the harvest season in the mountainous region had he seen so many people, such prosperity. If he didn't know any better, he would've thought he left the glum, dying world he knew and entered another.

Claude moved towards the cloth vendor with floral-patterned fabric on display, but didn't make it halfway before something slammed into the backs of his knees. The world tipped over, and his back hit the ground, the air leaving his lungs in a rush.

Clouds drifted over his head, and though they seemed indifferent to his suffering. Claude imagined them cackling at his misfortune, and he couldn't draw enough air to curse them in return. The shadow of a man with a cross on his back eclipsed the sky.

"You're late," Quintus said.