Chapter 8 : The Blood stained Faith
The skies over Valemire darkened as though mourning something the world hadn't yet understood. Though it was midday, the sun had vanished behind a veil of roiling, ink-black clouds. Crows circled above like omens, and the scent of rain hung heavy—though none dared fall.
The Abbey called.
Blackthorn Abbey, nestled between cliffs carved by time and forests shrouded in eternal mist, loomed like a forgotten monument to suffering. Its weather-worn stones bled rust down the walls, and twisted spires clawed at the sky like the fingers of the damned. Here, wind did not howl—it whispered, threading between crumbled archways and stained-glass ruins with secrets too old and cruel to name.
Dorian Greyborne stood at the edge of the abbey's outer wall, cloaked in black that matched the grief in his chest. His face was pale beneath his hood, but his eyes glinted with resolve—the kind forged in fire and vengeance. Every stone of this place breathed a memory he wished he could burn.
He had been here once as a child, clinging to his mother's hand. Back then, the abbey was already in ruin, but the rot was not just physical—it was spiritual. Within these walls, her screams had echoed off the sacred stone. His brother's death had been sanctified in incense and lies. And now, they had taken Evelyn—the only light left in the wreckage of his life.
> The same zealots who called themselves saviors. The same ones who carved scripture into flesh. The same ones who turned nobles against his name, calling him monster before he had even learned how to smile.
He moved like fog through the shadows, his footsteps silent. The outer halls were abandoned, but Dorian knew better. He could feel them. Watching. Listening. Whispering prayers laced with venom.
The stained-glass saints above him wept blood-colored light onto the cracked stone floor. Their faces, once serene, now seemed twisted—mocking echoes of faith twisted into fanaticism.
He passed them without a glance.
Each step was vengeance reborn.
---
Below, in the Abbey's underbelly, Evelyn sat on cold stone, her wrists bound by frayed rope, ankles bruised. Blood crusted at the corner of her mouth. Yet her eyes held defiance, not despair.
Across from her, a cloaked zealot leaned in, voice soaked in disdain.
"You think he'll come for you?" he sneered. "He is nothing but a ghost—scattered and forgotten."
Evelyn lifted her chin, bruised but unbowed.
"No," she said softly, a smirk tugging at her split lip. "He's the storm the shadows fear."
They hadn't noticed the wax—how she had dripped it night after night from her meager candle onto the ropes. They didn't know the knots had weakened. That each day she told herself, he's coming. Not because she needed saving—but because she refused to face this darkness without him.
She wasn't waiting.
She was preparing to fight beside him.
---
Above, vengeance took form.
Dorian struck with silence and certainty. His first target never saw him—only felt the kiss of steel across his throat before falling in prayerless collapse. Another was poisoned—a communion chalice tipped with venom harvested from an ancient root his mother once taught him to fear. Another he left beneath the altar, skull cracked open on stone as holy chants echoed in the distance.
Blood ran in thin lines down the sacred aisles. None cried out. None had time.
He was retribution cloaked in black.
By the time the Grand Priest entered the sanctum, the air was thick with iron and smoke. Incense wafted like funeral mist as he came face-to-face with the last Greyborne heir.
Dorian's gaze locked with his.
"I had hoped you'd burn with the rest," the priest spat. "You're a curse upon this land."
"And you," Dorian replied coldly, "are a lie draped in holy cloth."
The priest lunged—but Dorian was faster.
He caught him by the collar, yanked him forward, and drove the blade deep into his chest. The priest's scream echoed through the stained-glass bones of the Abbey.
> "Where is she?" Dorian asked, voice like frost.
The priest coughed blood, choking on his answer. "She's gone. You're too late."
Dorian leaned in, whispering against his ear as the life ebbed from him.
> "No. You are."
With a final twist of the blade, he let the zealot collapse.
---
And then—
The heavy doors to the cellar burst open with a splintering crash.
Dorian spun, blade raised—only to stop mid-breath.
Evelyn stood in the doorway, barefoot, trembling, face bruised, but eyes alight with fury and love. Her dress was torn, stained with dirt and blood. In her hand she held a rusted dagger.
They stared at one another across the holy ruin.
Scarred. Changed. Breathless.
And then—she dropped the dagger.
With a broken sob, she ran to him. Dorian caught her mid-stride, arms wrapping around her tightly, as if the world might snatch her away again.
She didn't cry—not yet. Nor did he. But something shifted.
The devil had found his light.
And the light—despite the scars—had chosen to stay.