To my shock, the pain in my chest was instantly snuffed.

  I hadn't noticed how much my demonic mark affected me until it didn't. It felt kind of like waking up from a very restful night of sleep and having the entire world in sharper focus. It was secretly poisoning me, and I would never have realized it were it not for this chapel.

  The church wasn't anything to write home about. It was a simple stone rectangle with two rows of small pews with a central aisle between them. I did some quick math and concluded that about sixty adults could fit comfortably. Hopefully, the small windows high above could be opened, because it would be sweltering in here in summer with so many bodies.

  There was a single stained glass window behind the altar depicting what I assumed to be a paladin, due to his armor being similar to mine, driving a spear through the chest of a demon that bore a black and gold crown. I don't consider myself an educated man, but I was reasonably sure that I understood what it was meant to convey.

  There was something special here. I could feel it. Not just the peace it gave me. Something more. Something in the chancel.

  I cautiously made my way down the aisle, then around the altar. The altar itself projected power. It felt like a soft, warm breeze was emanating from it, and it didn't matter what side of the altar I stood on. I carefully reached out and touched the altar, as if it were going to bite me. It did not, but I could tell that this was a holy object. I couldn't tell you why, but I was sure that it concealed a secret as well.

  I threw a look back at the door to the church, which I'd left open to let more light in, to make sure that I wasn't being observed before I lifted the altar cloth to see what lay beneath. There was nothing on the first two sides that I inspected, being the back and left side, but when I lifted the front, I could just make out joints in the stone. Joints that were so tight I wouldn't have noticed them if I hadn't been looking for them.

  I traced a finger against the joints, wondering if I could get my hands on something thin and stiff enough to wedge in and maybe pop a hidden mechanism, but discounted the idea given my medieval surroundings. Spring steel was probably centuries from being invented. I sighed and placed my palm in the center of the circumscribed square and tried to come up with an idea that wouldn't desecrate the altar.

  A warmth flooded through my hand, and I could feel the stone slide outwards towards it. Surprised, I took a couple of steps back, off the dais. It was as if the sun itself were in the stone drawer that slid out. A shaft of golden light blasted out against the ceiling, filling the entire church with a golden glow. It seemed solid as it widened and faded into a glow that reached every corner of the church, finally settling and disappearing as a fog of light.

  I knew this to be true, but I could not see it, for as soon as it started, I dropped to my knees and pressed my forehead to the ground. I didn't know what was happening, but I did know one thing with absolute certainty.

  Whatever it was, I was not worthy.

  * * *

  Father Yaqub saw the golden light blast through the church windows from his vegetable garden. His trowel hit the dirt. Fire. It had to be fire. Nothing else could create such brilliance.

  He ran, habit flapping around his legs, heart hammering against his ribs. The chapel was everything he'd dedicated his life to. The holy symbols, the service books, the vestments his predecessor had worn for forty years—all would burn. The toehold he had carved at the very edge of civilization would be destroyed in minutes.

  He burst through the door, unable to catch his breath.

  No smoke. No flames. Just a paladin kneeling before the altar, forehead pressed to stone in absolute prostration.

  "Blessed Light," Father Yaqub gasped, one hand clutching his chest. "I thought… I thought fire. The flash, I was certain…" He placed a hand against a pew and leaned over, gasping for breath.

  He forced himself to breathe. The young man didn't move, didn't acknowledge him at all. His armor was clearly that of a paladin, but was battered and worn as if he'd just stepped off a battlefield. Was that dried blood? He shook his head, begging forgiveness from the Light for thinking less of the man due to his ragged appearance. Dark hair, broad shoulders, the stillness of genuine prayer. He was clearly the real thing.

  "You frightened me half to death, young man." Father Yaqub's voice carried the edge of a scolding grandmother. "What happened here?"

  The paladin raised his forehead and looked back, and knelt, hands folding into his lap. He looked back at Father Yaqub with tears streaming down his cheeks and indicated to the altar with his head. Father Yaqub followed the gesture.

  The altar cloth hung askew. Beneath it, a drawer protruded from the stone base. How could such a thing be possible? There was no such drawer in his altar. He'd know. He'd brought it with him from the capital when he'd been assigned to this remote village. He'd found it in storage at the seminary, where it had been for decades, centuries perhaps, leftover when an older church had been 'upgraded' to a cathedral. The high priest had been happy to let him take it with him, since it was taking up valuable storage space and Yaqub was paying for the move. It had cost everything he'd owned before he became a priest to have it transported, and it truly was the rock around which he'd built his flock.

  "That's..." He stepped closer, legs unsteady. "I had no idea."

  The drawer itself seemed to glow faintly, or perhaps that was his imagination. Father Yaqub's hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the altar and leaned forward. Inside, nestled in ancient purple velvet, lay a small bone fragment. It was a single segment of a toe.

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  His breath stopped.

  The relic radiated presence, a warmth that had nothing to do with temperature. He knew what it was before his mind could form the words. The stained-glass window above depicted Saint Charlemagne in his moment of triumph, holy spear piercing the heart of the Demon King. This bone had belonged to that very saint.

  "Praise the Light," Father Yaqub whispered. Tears blurred his vision. "Praise be."

  A reliquary. He would need a proper reliquary of gold and crystal to display such a treasure. Pilgrims would come from across the realm to witness it. Donations would pour in. They could expand the church, perhaps build a shrine. He could share the relic with pilgrims and help them attain salvation. A seminary even, dedicated to studying the saint's teachings and the blessing of this discovery—

  "You should seal it back up."

  Father Yaqub turned. The paladin had risen to his feet but kept his gaze lowered.

  "What? No, this must be shared with everyone. It's a miracle! It's a miracle that you found it."

  "The enemy is coming." The young man's voice carried absolute certainty. "They can't know it's here."

  "Enemy?" Father Yaqub looked between the relic and this strange paladin. "What do you know of such things? Who are you?"

  "Just a flawed man trying to save the people of this village from a demon invasion." The paladin met his eyes finally. "Please. Close it. Seal the altar. Tell no one. If this is known, it will be harder to stop the forces of the Demon King when he comes."

  Those eyes—Father Yaqub's breath caught. Yellow around the pupils, fading to blue. Heterochromia. The mark of a servant of the Light branded by the devil. He'd read about such men, but they were the stuff of myth, not orthodoxy. He looked up at the stained glass, where Saint Charlemagne looked down at him with eyes like his.

  He turned towards the knight and held out his hand and closed his eyes, praying that he was wrong. He sensed divine light, yes, the unmistakable presence of a true paladin. But underneath, like a shadow moving beneath clear water, he felt something else. Something that shouldn't exist within the same soul.

  Father Yaqub stumbled backward and into a pew.

  Demonic taint. Faint but undeniable. This man was an agent of the Demon King.

  * * *

  Buttercup ambled from the church towards the main concentration of buildings. Elanthe figured that she'd find what she needed there, and soon found herself on the main street of the village—all six buildings of it.

  She could tell which was the inn; that one was easy, and she could tell which was the baker’s shop, but the other four weren't completely obvious. Elanthe led Buttercup to the inn and tied her to a post, then made for the nearest storefront.

  A bell rang as she opened the door and stepped through. "Just a moment," a voice called from the back room. Elanthe looked at the few wares in the store, hand tools for working a garden patch, simple plates and cups, and all the rest of the basic needs of rural life that a peasant might not be able to make for themselves, or might not care to put the effort into making.

  A woman emerged from the back room, tying an apron about her waist. Sharp eyes took in Elanthe's appearance—the tattered rags over borrowed clothes, the dirt still clinging to her despite yesterday's bath, the bruises fading but visible on her arms.

  "I don't give handouts," the woman said, her tone neither cruel nor kind. "If you need food, the church feeds the few poor in the village on Godsday. If you work for him, Father Yaqub will feed you on the other days of the week."

  Elanthe straightened, pride flaring despite her circumstances. "I'm not begging!" She was incensed but knew better than to lash out. "Oh, it's my clothing. Of course."

  She made a show of looking down on her tattered dress. "Sir Chuck and I just got back from campaign and I'm afraid my clothing wasn't up to the task. You can't imagine how thankful I was when he lent me some of his own, even if they're completely unbefitting of a lady like me. I was hoping I could find something more appropriate here as I purchase the other supplies that we need."

  The woman's eyebrows rose slightly. She crossed her arms, appraising Elanthe with a merchant's practiced gaze. Middle-aged, practical dress beneath the apron, hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun—the kind of woman who'd seen every trick and tale a desperate traveler might offer.

  "Purchase." The word carried skepticism. "With what coin?"

  Elanthe pulled the small pouch Chuck had given her, opened it, and poured too many coins into her hand. "Oh, that's too much." She returned all but five copper pieces to the purse and stopped. "Hmmm. I don't think you'd have any silk here, would you? For the neckline? No." She put three back in the purse. "I think this should be sufficient for a practical outfit, no? We have a lot of cleaning yet to do at the cottage."

  The woman's expression shifted. Not to warmth, exactly, but to attention. She stepped closer, examining the coins and noticing that they were still sharply detailed, as if they'd not seen much circulation, which meant they were straight from the capital. She reassessed Elanthe with fresh interest.

  "Stefania," she said, introducing herself with the slightest of head bows. "At your service. I own this store and will be happy to help you. Unfortunately, I don't have much cause to keep clothing in stock, other than these canvas pants that the farmers prefer. But if you can tolerate how 'Sir Chuck' permits you to be seen in public for another day, I may be able to find something appropriate for a girl your age in my attic. No silk, I'm afraid, but it's better than…" she cast a disapproving look up and down Elanthe, even tugging on her rags to try to seat it better, "Certainly better than this outfit."

  "Oh, that is so wonderful." The pirouette may have been a bit much, but between it and Elanthe's broad smile and bright eyes, a little something melted within the older woman's heart. “I may not show it, but I am a bit embarrassed to be seen wearing this. I feel like a snake that needs to shed its skin.”

  "Now now, child. A bit of decorum, please." She straightened a display of writing ink to hide the embryo of a smile she bore. "You mentioned that you need other supplies. Hard tack and ships' biscuits, I suppose, for your trip back to civilization."

  "Oh no. Sir Chuck has been assigned to this village. We moved into the abandoned cottage at the south end of town, by the bridge, yesterday, and today we're trying to make it livable. It is quite a mess. You wouldn't have a broom, by any chance?"

  "The cottage by the bridge? The cursed cottage?"

  "Well, if being full of dust and icky spiderwebs makes it cursed, then that's the one." Elanthe thought she might be laying the cute on too thick when Stefania's frown deepened.

  "Why did you pick that one?"

  "I didn't pick anything. Sir Chuck was commanded to take up residence there, and he's happy to do so. It's so much better than where we'd come from. That's the direction that the attack is most likely to come from as well, he says, and he wants to stop them before they get into the village."

  "What attack? Who is 'them'?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I spoke out of turn. Apparently, somebody pledged the village to the Demon King, and he's coming to collect."