Leaning against the crumbling old wall of the small sanctuary, Karak watched his companions as they nosed around the hilltop.

Around the chapel of the Dawn Lord stretched a patch of green—not particularly wide—ringed by tall beeches with silver trunks and leaves painted in every hue of sunset. Just a few steps beyond, on the northern slope, lay Ravast’s tiny graveyard. Nothing more than a chaotic, ill-kept sprawl of graves and headstones scattered through the tall grass, a mournful stretch of shattered stones left entirely at the mercy of the elements and of time’s relentless passing.

Many of the tombstones, dangerously slanted or collapsed altogether, lay crumbling in pieces under the shade of the beeches, while the few still standing reached toward the cloudy sky as though with fear—trembling, uncertain, carpeted in moss, emerald ivy, and a multitude of fallen leaves.

For reasons he could not fathom, the others seemed oddly interested in that nearly forgotten place.

To one side, on the western edge of the hill, Gwen and Liris were peering down at the fields and the village spreading out below them, wrapped in their placid quiet and anonymity. To the other side stood Tiresio and Goldrick, deep in conversation with the woman who had introduced herself as Maria, the priestess of the sanctuary.

A woman in her early forties—tall, slender, alabaster-skinned, dark-eyed—with delicate features framed by long, slightly wavy dark-brown hair. The calm gentleness of her manner, the accommodating patience with which she welcomed and answered the questions of her two curious interlocutors felt almost excessive to Karak, utterly out of place.

He had learned to distrust everything and everyone in the Valley, for that was the treatment he had received himself, and the very existence of a person like her seemed improbable at best. Welcoming, cordial, courteous. Qualities he had rarely encountered. Practically never.

And precisely for that reason—however sincere she might appear—something about her felt crafted, artificial, and he disliked it immensely. A mere instinct, nothing more… but more than enough for him. Emboldened, too, by her studied movements within the gown she wore with both elegance and simplicity. A long ceremonial robe, pure white and immaculate, devoid of symbol or embroidery, leaving her shoulders bare as well as her forearms, free between the open folds of the sleeves.

While he watched her speak with Goldrick and Tiresio, he hadn’t focused solely on her. He had caught fragments of their conversation as well.

Thanks to his keen hearing, he had overheard from a distance that for nearly thirty years there had been no priest—of any faith—in Ravast. A void the villagers and the Ravast family themselves had filled through their own personal, solitary worship of the Ancient Gods. A sort of chaotic and seemingly endless pantheon of deities of every kind, tied to every aspect of life in the Valley.

Human need had driven each of them to seek something higher, something that might help them or offer comfort, and so everyone prayed to a different god, hoping to be heard.

The only result, however, had been to spur the clergy of the Dawn Lord from the nearby city of Sethern to send the priestess Maria—both to support them and to convert them. Something that, over the past three months since her arrival, was indeed happening, albeit slowly.

Among those inclined to embrace the faith of the Light were even the Ravast brothers themselves.

But the woman's duties did not end there. She had been charged by her superiors with restoring, as best she could, both the sanctuary and the graveyard in the name of her faith—and though slowly, she was carrying out that task as well.

“There is still much to be done,” she had said with a smile, gesturing to the chapel’s exterior and the entire burial ground before them, “but I trust I’ll manage it within another couple of months. This place has been left to neglect for far too long. It is only right that the faithful and the departed may find here the comfort and peace they long for—and deserve.”

Words that did nothing to move Karak, who continued to find them nearly hollow.

Unlike those spoken by Goldrick.

Though he belonged to the same faith as the woman, Goldrick—for some reason—did not elicit the same response in him. The man seemed genuinely benevolent, upright, understanding, charitable toward all, sincere in what he said and did, with no apparent ulterior motive except a true desire to help others.

Qualities he had practically never met… yet in the man’s case they felt more real, more authentic. Even so, such an attitude made little sense to Karak in a land of predators and prey like the Valley. An attitude that, in his opinion, could exact a heavy price.

His thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected question—posed by Lucien, who had approached the group after spending some time observing the graveyard alone. A question that, strangely, piqued even Karak’s curiosity.

“The white rose, you say?” the priestess replied, turning her gaze toward a small, dark-stone structure with a sloping roof standing among the crooked graves, nearly at the center of the burial ground. “Philipo, the butler of Lord Lucas and Lord Simon Ravast, comes here every morning to place one. Freshly picked from their garden—fresh and beautiful. In memory of the grandfather and the parents of the two lords. A gesture of deep love and gratitude.”

Following her gaze, Karak spotted the object of their discussion.

A white rose—just one—rested gently upon one of the few stone steps leading to the raised entrance of what must have been the Ravast family mausoleum.

A small building, even smaller than a simple hut, narrow and tall, without openings except for a sturdy reinforced wooden door at the top of the steps. Well kept, certainly in better condition than the rest of the graveyard.

But beside the rose lying on the cold stone amidst a few fallen leaves, Karak noticed something else.

High on the doorframe, carved with great skill and precision, was a symbol. Even from afar his sharp sight recognized it. An animal fleece, painted in a dark hue.

“The Ravast family crest…” he murmured to himself.

He was still gazing at it when he realized that Goldrick, having stepped away from the others, was now approaching him.

“Just a moment for a prayer, Karak,” the man said as he passed him and entered the chapel. “Then we can leave. A matter of minutes.”

Karak answered only with a nod, arms crossed.

Yet shortly after the man disappeared inside, curiosity pricked him—just a little. Enough to make him lean slightly past the open doorway to see what his companion was doing.

He watched Goldrick walk the few meters across the chapel, passing a handful of old, worn wooden benches set along the side walls before kneeling before a modest little altar of gray stone. Behind it hung a wooden retable bearing the symbol of the Dawn Lord. A radiant rising sun.

Inside, despite the dim light filtering through the narrow, tall windows, the chamber was bright enough thanks to several dozen candles burning in trembling clusters beside the altar.

Enough light for Karak to notice the outline of a hatch set into the floor’s stonework, barely a step away from Goldrick. Squarely in the center of the room.

While Goldrick whispered words he could not understand into the stillness, Karak’s eyes drifted elsewhere.

On the eastern wall, between two small alcoves each holding a thin incense-scented candle, hung a painting—or rather, a portrait.

Its frame was finely carved and gilded, enclosing the likeness of a woman. Roughly Maria’s age, she had very long blond hair and eyes as blue as a cloudless sky. Her expression—serious but not severe, almost gentle—combined with her undeniable beauty to give her an ethereal, otherworldly quality, made nearly tangible by a painted golden halo above her head.

For a brief moment—even Karak’s mind lingered on that enchanting face.

But only for a moment.

For as soon as he noticed Goldrick rising and stepping closer to the portrait to admire it, he turned away and stepped back from the entrance.

That place held no interest for him. It had nothing to say.

“An insignificant little sanctuary in a village lost in the woods…” he muttered under his breath with disdain, ensuring his cloak and hood still concealed him well. “…dull.”

Then he turned toward the others and realized they were still looking around and speaking with the priestess.

With yet another annoyed grimace, he exhaled sharply—right before, for some unknown reason, his gaze drifted once more to the pale outline of the white rose resting on the mausoleum steps.

“Yes… dull…” he whispered to himself as, without waiting for the others, he turned and began shuffling back down the road they had taken to reach the hill.