The Night Of The Blood Moon (1)

The next day.

At dawn, by official decree, the Lord, the Knights, the Priests, and part of the Guards formed the Tribunal of Judgment and assembled before the Cathedral.

High Priest Kraf lit a branch of evergreen and traced the Sign of the Cross in the air with its smoke.

All knelt on one knee beneath it.

“I say unto you, who bear my name to the ends of the earth…”

–Let your sword and bow strike down the stranger and make him kneel before my name.

“For the power to govern and judge the world lies with me…”

–That power I give to you; therefore, believe and follow my word.

“The powers of darkness shall fall into the abyss, and the defiant shall be crushed…”

–I delight in the smoke of their bodies crushed and burned by you.

Priests moved among the Tribunal of Judgment—summoned after twenty years—sprinkling salt and fir leaves, symbols of purity.

When the rite ended, all came outside and mounted their horses.

A distance that took an old woman three days to walk could be crossed on horseback in half a day.

“The silver and lead?”

“Prepared. We’ve gathered all that is needed and loaded it onto wagons.”

Yodel nodded, unease on his face.

The banner of the Cross and the red-and-gold flag of Nastrand stood side by side, with the banners of the Lord’s house, the Priests, the Knights, and the Guards following behind.

“Let’s go. Today we erase the curse of prophecy once and for all.”

At Yodel’s order, Captain Fynel himself sounded the warhorn.

The Tribunal marched out of the castle gate toward northern Yotun Mountain, where the Fizeldin River flowed.

All who saw the procession knelt and recited scripture on the spot.

Where the sheer cliffs of Yotun Mountain spread wide.

The procession crossed a narrow bridge over the river’s upper stream, where a birch-branch marker indicated the village’s direction.

Following the path, the forest parted to reveal a humble, beautiful village—Soria.

Villagers harvesting potatoes froze at the sudden sight: banners waving, armored soldiers, priests robed in fine cloth.

All the villagers crossed themselves with the Sign of the Cross, knelt, and chanted scripture.

“Even here, in this remote hamlet, their devotion burns so bright. How could the Lord not be pleased?”

Pleased by the trembling villagers, Kraf stepped up beside Yodel and nodded repeatedly.

“Hmm…”

The Lord pointed to a woman nearest the procession. Two guards seized her and brought her forward.

“I’ll ask.”

Fynel turned his horse toward her.

“Before you stand Lord Yodel, High Priest Kraf, and Sir Morten, Knight Commander. We come on a mission of Judgment. Is this the village of Soria?”

The Lord, the Priests, the Knights, the Guards—and more fearsome than all, the mission of Judgment.

The woman’s legs gave way; she collapsed.

“W-we believe in the Lord, we pray and worship without fail!”

“Your faith is not in question. I ask again—is this Soria?”

“Y-yes, it is.”

“Then where is the house of the elder named Yondalf?”

Relieved that her family was not the target, color returned to the woman’s face.

“Follow this road straight up and you’ll find a hill. Beyond it lies a birch forest. At its end stands the house you seek—the only one there, you’ll know it at once.”

“Thank you.”

Fynel looked back and nodded. A guard stepped forward and pressed silver coins into her hand.

The woman prostrated herself in gratitude as the procession passed and moved toward the hill.

Yondalf was hard at work splitting firewood. He planned to use the oak’s charcoal to smoke venison. Winter was coming, and he needed to stockpile reindeer and trout.

“And for the priestess of Yotun Mountain as well.”

Yondalf took great pride in his steadfast faith in Olrun, and in his devotion to the Moon Goddess Manafreya, Olrun’s daughter.

True, the world had changed; now he was forced to cross himself and sit through sermons in the village hall. Yet Yondalf never abandoned belief in the northern gods and their dominion.

Once, the presence of a priestess nearby would have been a source of pride. Now it was a secret that must be hidden.

The last priestess—receiver of Olrun and Manafreya’s oracles—and her divine warrior, perhaps the last not just in Nastrand, but in all of Nordenheim.

He did not know when they had first hidden in the foothills of Yotun Mountain. But since the day he encountered weary Elin and Ingmar, just past youth’s threshold, he had taken boundless pride in helping them.

Crack, crack!

Clank, clank!

“Th-these sounds…?”

In his youth, Yondalf had fought as a soldier in Nastrand’s three-year war against the neighboring Duchy of Fjorland. Afterward, he served years as a border guard. He knew instantly the sound of hooves and clashing armor.

And tragically, that sound was drawing straight toward his house.

“This…this is bad.”

Such a force would never come all the way to his isolated home. Had the village been attacked, there would have been screams and smoke.

If they came for this old, shabby man, it could only mean one thing.

“That woman—surely she betrayed me! But how could she know!”

When the banners of the Cross and of the Duchy appeared through the birches, Yondalf dropped his axe and collapsed.

What was destined had come. There would be no turning it back.

Yondalf’s eyes swept his surroundings.

The birch forest, Yotun Mountain, each wildflower and blade of grass… And the house he had built with his own hands after service. Soon, he would see them no more.

The Tribunal lined up before him.

Silent figures on horseback gazed down.

He should cross himself and recite scripture. He should kneel.

But his mind was blank. Nor did they rebuke his blasphemy and defiance.

A heavy silence drifted between them like wind.

Even the birds had fallen silent.

“You are Yondalf?”

Fynel asked.

“Yes, I am.”

No sooner had he answered than Kraf’s robe flared as he shouted to the rear.

“Bind this filthy heretic—who served a false and empty name!”

Unlike the others, four priests clad in black robes and hoods stepped forward, each bearing a container.

They were the Cathedral’s “Punishment Inquisitors”, tasked with teaching apostates, blasphemers, and the unrepentant the price of their sins.

Two guards dragged from the cart a cross-shaped stake, planted it in the earth, and the inquisitors bound Yondalf to it.

What awaited him was the same fate the priestesses—and their defenders—had suffered twenty years ago.

And Yondalf had witnessed firsthand how horrific that fate was.

Kraf looked down at him with icy disdain.

“You will die regardless. But if you reveal the priestess’s exact location, I swear in the Lord’s name your punishment will be greatly eased.”

“……”

Yondalf clamped his mouth shut, as if choosing martyrdom.

Pure faith in the Gods of this land, handed down since ancient times.

His figure, pitiful before death, moved Fynel to speak without leave in the midst of the inquisition.

“Foolish old man. We already know she is somewhere on the northern slopes. Speak the exact place and lessen your pain.”

Kraf’s sharp gaze silenced him. Fynel lowered his head, chastened.

Watching from behind, Knight Commander Morten’s eyes narrowed in displeasure.

‘How arrogant can Kraf be? Fynel and I are equals on the council, yet he treats him like a subordinate. And this man calls himself a priest!’

Kraf gave his order in a cold voice.

“We never ask heretics twice without punishment. Inquisitors—tear his eyes out.”

His eyes!

Yondalf had already taken in his last sight of the world without regret. But instinctively, his final glance swept toward the cliff below, where Elin was hidden.

‘Priestess…please, be safe…’

None of them missed that fleeting farewell glance—Kraf, Morten, Fynel all saw. A sinister smile crept across Kraf’s lips.

Executioners drew tongs and knives from their box and surrounded Yondalf.

Some Guards and young Knights —too young to have witnessed the purge twenty years ago—swallowed hard, some trembling.

Two inquisitors seized his eyelids, prying them wide open without mercy.

His eyes darted wildly with primal fear as the blunt-tipped tongs opened to the size of his eyeball, gouging between upper and lower lids.

“AAAAAAARRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!”

Alas, unwavering faith did nothing to lessen the screams. Pain unlike anything in this world seemed to tear Yondalf’s body apart.

As his screams echoed through the birch forest, some Guards could not endure—turning away or retching.

Kraf rebuked them harshly.

“Punishment of heretics must be witnessed and remembered! No one may avert their gaze at a place of Judgment! This was but the first step—where is your devotion, where is your righteous fury toward heretics?”

The overbearing reproach flushed Fynel and Morten’s faces red.

Biting his lip, Fynel glanced at his lieutenant, who slapped the shaken Guards hard across the face.

The Knights fared little better.

One squire, newly come of age, nearly fainted in the saddle; an older attendant held him upright by saddle and waist.

“Bury this filthy heretic’s eyes, so they may never again look upon the heavens of the Lord or this Nordenheim!”

An inquisitor dug a hole and buried the eyes.

“Now then, when your mouth moves, we will ask again. Speak the place, spare us the trouble.”

“Uuuhhh…uuuhhh…”

As expected, no second chance came.

“Break the heretic’s teeth.”

He shook his head instinctively, but the inquisitors forced a knife hilt between his lips, pulled his mouth open, and brought down a tanner’s mallet without hesitation.

Ghhhk! Gaaahhhkkk!!!

Blood and foam poured forth.

But regrettably, Olrun did not take Yondalf’s life.

Barely conscious, Yondalf clung to life.

Blood gushed from ruined eyes and shattered mouth, soaking his face and chest.

“Your tongue remains. While it can move, we’ll ask again—speak the exact place, spare us the effort.”

“Uh…urhh…uh!”

At last, Yondalf muttered something with difficulty.

Kraf gestured for a priest behind him to listen.

The priest bent close, careful not to touch the frothing blood on Yondalf’s face.

“Uhrrhh…urrhh!”

“Once more, slowly.”

As he listened, the priest’s face hardened.

“What does the heretic say?”

“These vile words… Can I even repeat them with my own mouth?”

“I bear witness before the Lord that your lips are without sin. Speak.”

“He says, ‘Glory to Olrun, worship to Manafreya…’”

Kraf’s eyes burned with fury.