Patrick found himself living in the old abbey once again. Raphael taught him to read just as they’d promised and he helped the violet angel heal the townsfolk who came to them. Not once in the six years that Raphael remained did Patrick fall ill with the plague he’d surrounded himself with. Raphael never explained it, nor the miracles they performed on the people.

As the years went on, however, Raphael’s mood soured. Often it occurred in close conjunction with news of the wars. Far off, in lands Patrick knew he’d never see, a city called Alexandria had been struck and another army marched towards the Ottomans. Closer to home, however, Leifland had spread out from their disease riddled nation to begin, and so far win, a full-blown war on several fronts. Their neighbours fell one after the other in distressingly short order, allowing them to carve a path through Europe straight towards them.

It hadn’t occurred to Patrick how little he had known about the outside world until then. All his childhood the war was simply The War, with no faces or names to put to it, and it was always off in some mythical land he couldn’t even imagine. Raphael had ordered him to keep informed about it among other things though. Patrick did so, or as much as he could in a small town out where not even the king could bother to care about them. Whenever he mentioned Leifland or the knights who fought them, however, Raphael grew distressed.

“It is a vile and violent nation that carries the plague to every battlefield they step in!” Raphael had explained with venom in their voice. Their expression turned sorrowful as they clutched their earring. “But it is still war no matter how it is waged. It is not my domain.”  Patrick worried they might tear the jewelry from their skin as their eyes welled. “All my work, it’s a waste of time to men of war.”

Patrick hadn’t understood what Raphael attempted to tell him then. The weight of their words only set in many weeks later when a horseman came charging through the town shouting that the Leiflanders were on the horizon. Patrick had run out to the abbey as fast as he could to inform Raphael of the news only to be met with an empty chapel. The few townsfolk still in their care all said the same thing: Raphael, in tears, had told them to hide before disappearing into the light.

Patrick searched the abbey up and down but only found the same tale. By the time he’d scoured every corner the air had been strangled by the awful scent of burning and filth. The town at the bottom of the hill had turned into nothing more than a billow of smoke with an eerie green colour. Patrick hardly had a chance to react to the sight however as a horde of rusted knights on the backs of rotting horses charged up the hill and straight towards the abbey.

Patrick barricaded the doors and windows as well as he could but the old rundown abbey had little left to offer. Soon he found himself locked inside the chapel as a miasma filled the halls behind the knights. They slammed on the walls and doors of the small room, the green haze seeping in through the cracks created by their weapons. Patrick watched as it slowly eroded the wood. The empty water bowls clattered to the ground as the posts they sat on rotted away before Patrick’s eyes and the pews sunk into the mist.

There was a sound of cracking stone behind him as he backed away from the collapsing doorway. Patrick turned around just in time to get out of the way when the miasma ate through the base of the left angelic statue. It shattered, part of its upper body rolling across the ground and in the way of the horde trying to push into the chapel. They climbed over and around the large slab of stone as its kind expression melted away. New faces, familiar despite their rotten state, had joined the knights. Rusted helmets clattered to the floor, revealing skeletal features dotted with sloughing flesh.

A blinding golden light filled the chapel, pouring in from the right wall beside the final standing statue. When Patrick could see clearly again, he witnessed a tall man dressed in gold behead one of the walking corpses with a burning sword. Several other men and even women dressed in pure white armour descended upon the rest. In short order, the enemy had been defeated and only the miasma leaking from their bodies remained, slowly dissipating in the light.

With their enemy slain, the group turned their attention to Patrick. After his nerves began to calm, he could finally get a better look at the golden man who was fast approaching. His clothing was unquestionably militaristic but which military was unclear. A large white cape with six points hung off his right shoulder, held in place by a wing-shaped brooch. He was just taller than Patrick and his appearance brought to mind images of the heroes and gods of Rome. His skin was a golden brown that made his blond hair seem to glow and his terrifying eyes even more striking. His face was stern and he held confidently onto the sword Patrick finally realized wasn’t simply on fire, but made of it.

Yet what caught his eye the most as the man stood right before him was a small rectangular shape on the right side of his face. It was mostly hidden by his hair but when the knight whipped his head to speak something over his shoulder it jostled the earring enough to reveal a small gem, the violet colour of which seemed to be overtaken by a golden glint as the light of the sword caught on it.

“You live.” He was jogged out of his thoughts and looked up at the knight, who glared down at him expectantly. Patrick ignored him and ran over to the corpses that now filled the chapel until he found the one he’d been looking for. It was indeed the farmer’s son, his face half-rotted off with his jaw bone exposed and eyes oozing out of their sockets. “What’s going on? What happened to them?” Patrick cried.

“These are Leifland’s armies.” The golden knight explained. “They twist the corpses of their enemy into these miasmic demons.”

“But why here?” Patrick continued. A thousand questions rushed through his mind but he couldn’t catch any long enough to ask. The knight’s face twisted in disgust. “They do not care who they consume so long as they continue to spread and expand their ranks for their master. The sinful fall the easiest, so they seek them out.”

A rage filled the young man as he stood up the face the knight. “The people of this town are as faithful as any other!” He shouted.

The knight only scoffed. “All humans carry sin so long as they possess freedom. Why do you alone live is the true question. Perhaps you remain faithful enough to bear power against it?”

“Who are you for me to answer to?” Patrick demanded. “You insulted the dead’s faith and blame them for their fate and yet you just showed how easily you can dispatch them! Who are you to insult them when you were capable of stopping this before it began but you waited until they’re all like this? You call them sinners but you let Raphael’s chapel fall into ruins? Why should I answer you?”

The golden knight did not seem to appreciate the words. He gave Patrick a terrifying expression that made the man believe few people had ever dared to deny the knight or at least had not lived to do so a second time. A chord had been struck. “Never speak that name in my presence again or I’ll cut you down where you stand! You know nothing, you have no right to speak it!” He snarled.

“Besides, do you see him here now? No matter what beautiful face he’s put on this time, he has abandoned you and your church as he always will when the true struggle appears. He would never raise a sword to protect the humans he claims to love! I am the one who stands before you, offering you a way to wield your faith in the God for true good!”

Patrick stumbled away from the knight as his voice boomed through the destroyed building. It carried a physical force that caused Patrick’s very bones to shutter in fear. The rest of the white-clad knights did similarly, and Patrick could hear them whisper about his potential fate. Terrified, enraged, and still in shock, Patrick fled.