Low-Fantasy Occultist

Chapter 385.5 - Interlude Umlaut 1

The young acolytes knelt in a crescent shape before the central pyre, barefoot and empty-handed, their robes stained with the red of fresh embers. Sweat traced slow paths down their backs, yet none dared wipe it away.

Their heat resistance would eventually reach the level that they could withstand the temperatures blacksmiths used to forge, but for now, they could show their dedication in this way.

Around them, pillars of black basalt gleamed strangely under the roaring fires, sometimes revealing insights into ancient scenes of cities being burned into submission, of plagues being cauterized from the land, that even higher-ranked priests couldn’t remember witnessing.

“Fire has no cradle.

Fire has no grave.

We name you, and you endure.”

A low, echoing thumping accompanied every chanted verse, as both a guide for those who still needed to internalize the rhythm of fire and to ensure no other entity in the city could peer into the temple.

“Sashara, First Spark,

who learned to breathe as the world learned to turn,

hear us.”

Above them, from a shadowed alcove, Bishop Umlaut watched the rite impassively. The stone railing in front of him was warm beneath his palms, a clear sign that Her presence was growing stronger, that this batch had potential, though he didn’t allow himself to hope.

The world was much more complicated now than it was during the first ceremony he attended in this very same temple. Back then, there had only been wilderness to the west, a loose confederation of beastmen that needed to be brought to heel.

Now, things had become quite complicated indeed.

“We offer breath to the flame.

We offer fear to the flame.

We offer all that may yet be burned away.

Cleanse what is weak.

Temper what is strong.

Leave only what can survive your gaze.”

One by one, the acolytes started offering their names, burning the last pieces of their old lives in the fire so that they might be completely cleansed.

Their voices trembled at first, a sign of weakness and reluctance that many of the older clergymen would have considered unacceptable, but Umlaut was old enough to understand it was physiological.

There was no person of that age who could abandon all they were without a trace of fear.

Or rather, that happens occasionally, but it’s not necessarily a good thing. Some end up becoming great warriors of Her cause, while others are simply too ignorant to realize what they are casting out.

Umlaut closed his eyes, just for a moment, and listened with more than his ears.

“You are the hunger that teaches.

You are the pain that remembers.

You are the mercy that ends things quickly.

From ash we were shaped.

To ash we will return.

Let us be useful in between.”

Mana swirled in the air, growing even hotter. He felt it as a tightening behind his eyes, a pressure in his chest, the warning warmth that came before ignition.

The central pyre answered the prayer as it always did, yet the flames rose higher, brighter than on the last dozen ceremonies, fed by no fuel except devotion and the careful sigils etched into the floor.

No one else seemed to notice the difference, as they were captivated by the burning power.

The acolytes extended their hands toward the fire, palms flat. To them, this marked the boundary between their old and new lives. The fire would test them now, flowing through their bones and blood, searching for fear and determination.

Anything found would be thrown into the same flames, making them stronger and helping the new acolytes trust Her completely.

“Look upon our hands and find them wanting.

Look upon our hearts and find them fuel.

Look upon our names and decide if they deserve to remain.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Burn the lie.

Burn the hesitation.

Burn the future that dares to exist without you.”

The bonfire was now really roaring, lifting off the ground and splitting into smaller flames that floated above each acolyte.

Yet, before the rite could truly start, the fire changed color.

“If war comes, we will be the torch.

If judgment comes, we will be the pyre.

If the world must end, let it end bright.

Sashara, Ever-Watching Flame,

take notice.”

Umlaut’s eyes snapped open.

The flames flickered inward, curling and tightening into shapes that no sigil had summoned. Heat burst through the temple, sudden and stifling. Several acolytes gasped, their chant faltering before discipline pulled it back into order.

The flames started moving again, weaving through the gaps between bodies, brushing shoulders, and circling necks without burning. A faint whisper of sound followed, like breath drawn through a furnace.

Umlaut felt wonder grow in his chest as he sensed his goddess becoming more present, even through the World's limitations in accepting all her radiant power.

For the briefest moment, the flames flared white at the core, and within that brilliance, there was intention. Judgment, perhaps. Or hunger. Umlaut could not tell, and that uncertainty thrilled him even as it set his teeth on edge.

Several acolytes wept openly now. One laughed, a sharp, broken sound that stopped as the fire curled affectionately around his face. Another swayed, eyes rolled back, lips moving in silent prayer. None had been burned. Not yet.

Umlaut allowed himself a smile. If She had decided to personally bless this batch, it meant great and terrible things were coming. Opportunities for the faith to grow beyond the constraints that had kept it limited for the past decades, and chances for its enemies to strike deep.

The fire receded as suddenly as it had flared up, collapsing back into its disciplined column. The heat subsided, and the air became still. The acolytes slumped forward, gasping and clutching themselves as if to confirm they still lived.

Below, the older priests rushed in to tend to them, congratulating them on passing the rite.

Above, Umlaut remained still, even as his smile faded.

Such a direct intervention meant that things would keep heating up. He’d hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they could smooth out the rough edges and settle in enough that no more upheaval could hurt them, but as was often the case, Sashara still had much to teach him.

The tavern wasn't exactly the kind of place important clergymen were supposed to visit, but for that very reason, it served as a great meeting spot when people like him and his counterpart needed to talk.

No one, not even the most heretical demon worshipper, would expect a Bishop of the Flames and a Tidemaster to meet for drinks at a tavern on the docks.

Umlaut wore civilian black clothing, severe and well-tailored but rough enough not to raise suspicion. The red thread at his cuffs was subtle enough to go unnoticed by anyone who didn't know what to look for. Heat clung to him despite the night air, much like how other men carried perfume.

He sat on a private balcony, the only one of its kind in this place, usually reserved for smugglers and their patrons to meet without interruptions.

For once, it would have caused less of a scandal if that had been who he was.

His counterpart arrived just a minute later, equally subtle as he was, despite the necessary adornments of his faith.

Blue pearls were arranged along his brow, catching the lantern light like drops of frozen tide, yet a moment later they became almost invisible, much like great shapes could hide beneath the ocean's surface.

Considering how much mana was stored within him, it was a marvel he could slip around so easily, but then again, Umlaut had his own ways to do the same, even in the temple district where everyone recognized his face.

“Umlaut,” the man said, tilting his head slightly. "You look satisfied. I take it the ceremony went well?”

“Ismal,” Umlaut greeted, tilting the tankard of beer he’d been given. “As well as could be expected, given the circumstances.”

A server appeared moments later with tankards of ale, bowed while taking their order, and then disappeared after assuring them it would only be a couple of minutes.

Neither priest bothered with further pleasantries. They had shared enough blood and consequences over the centuries to dispense with formality, sometimes because of the other, sometimes in support of one another.

“The nobles are still nervous,” Ismal said, taking a sip of his ale, “their parties are becoming poorly thin veils to hide their emergency meetings, and their smiles have started to crack.”

Considering that the average noble only had one notable stat, their charisma, that was saying something.

“Their fear of becoming irrelevant when caught between a great power struggle is not unfounded,” Umlaut noted. “Once they would have let us handle this business ourselves without doing more than pay lip service, but the Tower has grown stronger, and it doesn’t look like the Duke intends to shield them, unless they go to him on their knees.”

Ismal chuckled. They both had expected the young Duke to take advantage of the chaos, of course, but the boy was proving to be more shrewd than either of them had given him credit for.

It's a risky move to push the nobility’s feelings this far, but it’s working for him, and we're not exactly sitting still.

“We probably need to let them have a small victory,” Umlaut mused, “A small one, of course. Public enough to be undeniable. Something they can parade around to reassure themselves they don’t need to give up their power to the Duke, or he’ll come out of this period stronger than all of us.”

“Bah, I’m tired of concessions,” Ismal grunted, though he didn’t deny his proposal. The Duke was technically the weakest faction, with the fewest Prestige classes, but he also had the support of the kingdom behind him, and if things escalated too much, he could call upon his ties to the Royal House.

That wouldn't be good for anyone, so finding a balance was essential.

The food finally arrived a moment later. Fish for one, lamb for the other. Fire and water, even at dinner. They ate in silence for a few moments, until they were sure no one else was in earshot.

“Have you found more of the rats?” Ismal asked.

It was a leading question that finally revealed why he’d called this meeting, but Umlaut played along for now. “A family in the merchant houses, yes. They are currently being handled as we speak. A terrible accident, you see. They will have left an oil lamp on in their very flammable warehouse.”

“Good riddance,” Ismal said. “Fire is good for getting rid of bodies, at the very least.”

Umlaut merely raised an eyebrow, silently urging the other to get on with it. He wouldn’t go so far as to say this kind of meeting threatened their position, but given the current tensions, it was crucial to avoid being seen together unless absolutely necessary. He’d already need to manipulate the server’s memory before they left; he’d prefer it if that didn’t happen without a good reason.

“We have confirmation on our end as well,” Ismal said.

Umlaut narrowed his eyes. There was only one place he could think of that would justify such a meeting, considering they had already discussed the Duke. “The Tower, then?”

“Indeed,” Ismal nodded. “A contributor, at the very least. They were careful not to get caught, and never helped directly, but I was able to verify that only an Archmage could have had such influence.”

“That complicates things,” Umlaut said softly.

“It does, and it doesn’t,” the other grunted. “We already knew they had inside help of some kind, and I doubt it was the Tower as a whole. The most likely option is a rogue agent trying to gain something for their own benefit, and the second most likely is that the Tower Master was trying to spark some kind of reaction from us.”

Umlaut nodded in agreement. It made sense, although it meant they had to adjust their plans.

“I suppose that means Alluria will have to go through some more chaos, then,” he finally said.

Ismal gave him a fanged grin that promised nothing but trouble.

They both drank, in agreement that, whether fire ate at the foundations or water eroded them, the enemy would fall.