CHURCH OF OUR SACRED HEART — GRANARIA
PRESENT DAY — 10:47 AM
Storm sat on the stone floor, facing Thorn. Every eye in the room was fixed on them, but he made a deliberate effort to avoid her eyes. January had granted him refuge inside the church and ensured that at least twenty of her most devoted followers escorted him. Some were old friends who had accompanied him higher up, while others were Ordizien zealots who monitored his every move, blindly obeying January's commands.
Wearing their distinct Plurizien commune attire, several of his past companions observed Thorn. Their gazes held a mix of fear and something new—awe, admiration, respect, perhaps? Unlike the other Ordizien, who maintained blind faith in their Gods, the commune's people had adapted their dogma to reflect their new knowledge. They continued to fear the Gods and pray fervently, but they harbored no affection for them: the heart, the compass, the dove, and the new one, which they had concluded was a star.
Storm's gaze drifted to the stained-glass depicting Thorn's likeness. The backdrop of roaring flames highlighted her lightly tanned face. The artist's embellishments—exaggerated horns, a pointed tail, and piercing red eyes—were starkly evident.
He couldn’t stand to look at her, to share the same space, to breathe the same air, to think…to think of her touching him, hurting him, killing him. If it wasn’t for her words—that old call sign—he would distance himself. But this woman was Tom’s friend, somehow… She said she was acting on his behalf, invoking old, secret code words.
Thorn released a stifled chuckle. “At least I’m up there with the rest of them. Plus, I have my own window and wall while they…” Thorn glanced up at the round skylight above, and he followed her gaze. It was divided into three stained glass panels: the bleeding heart, the compass—with its tips centered on a globe—and the dove, illuminated by the holy fire. “Someone ought to tell Preppy that I’m more famous than she is.”
“Your orange is showing,” he responded tersely—the first words he had offered her. “What do you want?” He studied her and the ghosts that accompanied her.
She narrowed her eyes. “What upsets you more, poet? That I fucked him or that I shot him?”
He stood up. Maybe her code words were meaningless. She was just messing with his head.
“Sit down, Storm.” And she made the sign. The secret hand gesture the people in his movement had used to reveal themselves to others at Davos and all the other places they had stormed to protest against injustice. She touched her left wrist three times with her right index finger. It was a subtle signal revolutionaries used to indicate they too had a pulse, that they cared, unlike the heartless leaders responsible for Earth’s climate collapse. He watched her intently, resuming his seat slowly, ensuring he missed no detail.
To share confidential information in the presence of others, they'd tap their wrist once for each vital word—a technique she employed now as she spoke.
“Your boyfriend caused a tsunami up there. He really needs to change. But materializing change is…well…hard. Fortunately, he’s not alone. So, stop worrying. Where can a gal get some food? I have an urgent need…to fill my stomach. People die when they don’t eat. You know? We need to go.”
The woman’s attempt was sloppy, confusing, and awkward. She had the subtlety of a monster truck in a china shop. Yet, he deciphered her message, and it seemed no one else caught on. People were dying, and she was here to whisk him back to Pluriz. They needed to find a way to be alone so that they could vanish.
“I need water!” A traveler's voice broke the relative calm as he burst into the church; eyes wild with desperation. He lunged for the vestry, clashing with several Ordizien.
Their response was immediate and synchronized, their declaration ringing through the not-so-sacred building: “Doors shut! No soul left alone! All eyes on the poet.”
“I’m going to die here,” the madman screamed as a chorus of ghostly older women giggled rabidly. Their cackles multiplying as they reverberated throughout the stone walls.
An older Ordizien man untied his waterskin and extended it to the traveler. “Here, have some water.” His bushy white brows were as pronounced and untamed as his mustache. Storm recalled the man's kindness during his own recovery from a severe lashing.
“Get me out. Just get me out!” The traveler, in his panic, pushed the old man to the ground. The waterskin fell and its contents pooled on the stone floor, staining the limestone. The onlookers stood back, a tell-tale sign this was part of the traveler’s experience.
Both Storm and Thorn rose instantly, but Thorn was quicker. By the time Storm approached, the edge of her sword menacingly rested at the traveler's throat.
“Care for a close shave?” She quipped, dismissing his ghosts with her free hand.
The traveler fixed his gaze on her. “You... Do I recognize you?” His eyes shifted from her to the stained-glass window and then settled on Storm. “I know him too. Dead, both of you... you're both dead.”
Thorn responded, “One of the few perks of being dead—the power to hurt travelers. It's quite freeing.”
The man staggered, resting against a nearby wall. “Water... I need water. Just do it. Please, just end it.”
Storm assisted the older Ordizien man back onto his feet before turning to Thorn. “Bleed the pig to death.” They didn't need travelers causing harm and infringing upon the free will of others. Once the bully departed, he was unlikely to come back. Currently, death Down Below was his only way out of Spiral Worlds. A way to save the traveler’s life.
Thorn flashed a defiant smile and sheathed her sword. “Get the frack out of here,” she snapped at the traveler.
Stumbling, the traveler made a hasty retreat toward the door, almost colliding with January as he passed.
“These black glitches aren’t strong enough. Some pests still find their way in,” January remarked, walking toward the altar built deep into the mountainside. Turning to face Storm, she extended her hand invitingly. “Come, it's time to pray,” she said, her words melodic.
He took her hand and kissed it gently. “Without technology, we can't reach the masses. Our prayers alone won’t keep travelers away.”
“You underestimate your influence,” January replied softly. “Your poems, your stories—they've protected us for years. Who can say what greater power they might hold?”
When the travelers weren't watching, stories became Spiral Worlds' currency. They were the commodities traded in markets and grand halls. Decades ago, Tom's sermons had sparked a shadow economy, one invisible to the Lucky Ones. Underlings traveled great distances to meet Storm, hoping to hear a new story—something they could trade for power, safety, fame, or even just food and shelter. This dynamic had helped him amass his initial following. Then, the allure of his compelling stories took over, transforming what began as self-interested gatherings into a glitch-inducing cult.
“The poet is right,” Thorn interjected. “If we can get him to the northern border, I can sprint to Compiz and secure a streaming device to disseminate his message.”
Storm shook his head. “On horseback, it took us eight months to reach Compiz last time.”
January's brows furrowed even before she voiced her disagreement. “All we need is to wait five days. Shadow will deliver our freedom. I won't risk it.”
“Listen, Jan,” Storm began, placing her hand on his chest. “If the travelers return, your order will fall apart. They'll conscript you, make you suffer.”
“And then who will watch over Storm?” Thorn interjected. “He needs to return to Pluriz and preach to the masses.”
January withdrew her hand and pivoted to face the altar. “Nate is our leverage. We must maintain our hold over Shadow.” She lifted the silver heart from the altar. “His heart is our key to salvation, and I hold it right here,” she said, glancing at Storm. “I won’t let you go.”
“You don’t need to,” Storm countered. “We should head north. We're only two days from Seven Hills. I can speak to the city's million inhabitants there. That gives us the best chance to induce glitches and deter the travelers.”
Although it sounded like a solid plan, he was aware of its untruth. Seven Hills was the largest Ordizien city, but truly altering the fabric of reality required the unique sensitivity of the Plurizien. He paused, lost in his thoughts. His true aim? Evading Granaria's constant surveillance. If he and Thorn could get beyond those walls, their chances of materializing elsewhere would soar.
January carefully placed the heart back on the altar. “Wrath has eyes everywhere.”
Thorn tilted her head, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Why not let her know? She has no love for travelers, and those glitches? She revels in them.”
“They can follow us and we’ll travel as far as they can go,” Storm said.
Domizien were dangerous. They were also a distraction, and if Storm was going to betray his dear friend, he wanted Wrath to know that neither Jan nor the Ordizien colluded in his escape. He wouldn’t let anything happen to them.
He also wanted to reconnect with his…sister, or at least, that's who she believed him to be. Guilt weighed on him for all the moments he had turned away from her. For not recognizing her…soul. The girl had a lovely heart, kind and open, and he needed to learn what had happened and how he could bring her back. He understood wrath; it was in his blood, in every cell of his body. He was best positioned to bring Hope back from whatever pain she’d experienced.
His eyes landed on Thorn’s ghosts, trying to make sense of the story they told. There were translucent depictions of her sister and his sister and so many others, all competing for the athlete’s attention. “I can talk to Hope. Explain the plan.”
January sighed, “The girl is unstable, and you’ll end up dead. I’ll talk to her.”
Thorn grinned, staring at him as if she was marveling at his plan. “We should drag that traveler with us. Show the worlds we control our destiny.”
Jan shook her head. “We can’t—”
Thorn met Jan's eyes, her voice steady and determined. “I can,” she said, gripping her sword confidently. As she moved towards the door, her ghosts trailed behind her, casting eerie shadows on the walls.