Gunmage
Chapter 97: Abomination

Chapter 97: Chapter 97: Abomination

Nothing could faze Gloria again. She had seen through the worst, she had lived through the worst.

After her mother disappeared, her aging father was her only anchor, her emotional support.

They had weathered storms together, trudged through hardship side by side. Hard times had come, and harder ones had followed. Nothing good ever seemed to last.

They were poor, but not homeless.

Despite her young age, Gloria worked at the local bakery for minimum wages in their cramped district of Drakensmar.

Her father served as a coach, piloting horse-drawn carriages late into the night. The carriages weren’t his. Neither were the horses.

Yet he was responsible for their upkeep, while giving a large cut of his earnings to the wealthy owners.

And then there were the taxes. The cruel specter always looming over them. Rent day brought nightmares like clockwork.

But it didn’t matter.

By the grace of the gods, Gloria had gotten work at a bakery. One that wasn’t far by Drakensmar standards, which meant a brisk 30-minute walk to and fro each day.

There was no chance for formal education, books were expensive, school fees more so, and tutors were a laughable luxury.

But as always, there was a silver lining.

The Church of the Ember Creed held a Sunday school for the poor, a single hour each day offering glimpses into the world of letters and numbers.

She never missed it. It was there she became literate. It was there she learned basic arithmetic.

Though they still struggled, her new job helped. They could now afford some "luxuries" of life—like white bread.

But it didn’t last.

Drakensmar fell, overrun by the forces of Heieg after a brutal defeat in the east.

The local garrisons fled like rats, leaving the civilians to suffer.

And suffer they did.

For six agonizing months, the monsters in human skin wreaked havoc. They didn’t just plunder, they savored cruelty.

Gloria and her father didn’t care for gold anymore. Survival was the only treasure that mattered.

Her father warned her, never to go outside. She in turn prayed each night that he would come home safe.

Her prayers weren’t answered.

One evening, soldiers mauled her father in the square. An officer of Heieg shot him dead, right in front of her.

His men didn’t even give her time to scream. They reached for her, with the same foul intent they had inflicted upon countless other women.

She was saved by a miracle, a man in an Ophris uniform. A prisoner, perhaps. He had taken a huge risk to save her.

Even though she had been ready to die, she couldn’t let his effort go to waste. So she did what they told her. With tears in her eyes but no hesitation, she thanked her father’s murderer.

She hated them.

She hated the soldiers of Heieg.

She hated the mages whose excruciating experiments made her life a living hell.

She hated the gods for their silence.

She prayed they would all die. Every last one.

And for once, her prayer was answered.

Drakensmar collapsed. And she, somehow, survived the fall.

The ruins swallowed her captors. She didn’t feel joy, nor sorrow.

Only a great, gnawing hunger.

They hadn’t suffered like she did.

They hadn’t endured like she did.

It wasn’t fair.

She would make sure they knew her pain. Even if it cost her everything.

She was among the second batch of survivors sent to Pyrellis. She had no relatives. Nothing to her name but the fire in her chest.

She was only 14, too young for the army. So the Church placed her in an orphanage.

They were fed, clothed, housed. In exchange, the children worked as cleaners, gardeners, ushers. A few were groomed for priesthood.

Gloria stayed, waiting. Four years, then the army.

Now, she sat on a hard wooden pew in the cathedral after service. The rain whispered against stained glass windows, and thunder echoed faintly overhead.

The flickering flames of the cathedral’s chandeliers cast long, writhing shadows on the ancient stone walls.

She and the other orphans were flanked by silent figures in black robes streaked with crimson. They stood motionless at the edges of the hall, like statues carved from ash and blood.

They had been waiting for someone. A priest? A bishop? She couldn’t remember.

They had been here at least an hour. Her legs were asleep, her stomach grumbled, and her sarcasm was this close to leaking out.

Just then, everything changed.

The flames brightened suddenly—then dimmed.

A cold hush swept the hall. The air grew heavy, as if the cathedral itself had sucked in a breath.

And then... a presence.

From the inner sanctum came the sound of soft footsteps. But they echoed like thunder. The shadows seemed to twist in reverence, or fear.

A deep voice recited, slow and solemn, from the scriptures

"And from the molten blood of ancients did the wyrm arise,

To bind the stars with flame and claw, and curse the heavens twice."

The figure emerged.

He was unlike anyone else in the room. His robe was a flamboyant crimson, flowing like liquid fire, trimmed in black with white accents on the sleeves and the edge of an inner shirt barely visible beneath.

He was tall, powerful, and impossibly old.

His hair was a storm of grey, drifting like smoke all the way to his knees. His face was deeply lined but carried the strength of mountains and the wrath of oceans.

His golden eyes seemed to pierce straight through her soul.

This was no ordinary priest.

Gloria didn’t know, but she felt it. He was more.

More real than anyone else she had ever seen.

He raised his head, eyes locking with hers.

And then he spoke, with a voice like gravel and thunder.

"What is an abomination doing in my cathedral?"

His voice was harsh and clear, yet layered with meanings older than words.

He stepped forward slowly, his eyes seeming to catch truths that eluded mortal sight.

Each movement carried weight. He stopped a few paces from her, looming like a silent verdict.