Love is He, Who breathed life into dust;
A soul so fearfully and wonderfully woven.
Yahweh is He, mightier than mortal musing;
A Father so gentle, He gifted us free will.
Fallen are we, these hearts artful and lured;
Straying so far, how wounded You must be.
Yet saved are we, Your Spirit burns within us;
Sacrificed and risen, we behold Your heart.
Light in me a flame, a life nurtured in You.
A sea breeze flickers me; I fade without You.
With slipping fingers on a sinking ship, I believe,
You remain with me, and I long for You still.
Fulfilled in You, blessed are the ones held close,
Yet still I await You, Lord; keep my heart Your own.
This blinded wonder of woods frightens me;
Vile laughter and dead saplings enrages me.
I love You, rain are You, pouring out blessing;
Heirs of dust, drinking, a garden blooming.
I need You, fire are You, slaying the parched;
A desert of thorns and thistles, left burning.
A poem is stuck in his head.
His Angel always struggled to express herself verbally, but poems and parables are the sanctuary of her soul, made flesh with confidence after her calling.
And as he stands watching the castle engulfed in flames, the thorns and thistles consumed by judgment,
a strange soothing sensation ripples through him as he recites the poem.
She had written it that morning before her sermon in Canawood,
before leaving to answer her calling, and through the agents who departed the island for supplies, he came to realize his own.
For such a remote island, there were far too many luxury vessels sailing southeast toward the unknown, inaccessible Miraeth.
A brief act of espionage revealed a private gathering in Miraeth, a yearly ritual where the world's elite—politicians, CEOs, and religious leaders—convened in secret.
It was no surprise.
The world may suspect them, but their entitlement and influence are enough to keep the system turning a blind eye.
Three days were all they had before the gathering. Here, in Miraeth, he had free rein, and so did the agents risking it all.
But then they had spent their lives playing with fire and drowning in blood.
Yet the world remains draped in blue and calm, betraying nothing of the ritualistic turmoil to be unleashed after midnight.
Moonlight carves the white castle from the surrounding woods in majestic splendor, golden windows gleaming above the ocean.
Agent Czar draws the curtain over the porthole window just as a knock sounds at the cabin door,
followed by the low voice of a guard.
He utters a prayer under his breath before settling the golden mask over his face, the green and red patterns mirroring the dark elegance of his black attire and red jacket.
His gaze skims over the private guest chamber aboard the luxurious cruise: dark wood, a shirt carelessly tossed over a green velvet chair, an unmade bed,
a champagne bottle and an unfinished glass of liquor resting upon the coffee table, the carefully crafted normalcy of Erick Rossi.
No visible trace remained of the dead man now wrapped in a blanket and hidden inside the bathroom linen closet.
He moves toward the door as another knock sounds through the cabin.
He opens it to two guards waiting outside in black suits and polished shoes, weapons concealed, their faces devoid of expression.
"Transport is ready," the younger man says, pale and clean-shaven.
Czar replies with a nod, adjusting his glove as he moves through the corridor lit by crystal lanterns, the guards flanking him.
Sea breeze rushes past him as they reach the lowest deck,
where small transport boats glide across the dark waters toward Scheria Island, one of the 14,570 islands comprising Miraeth.
Erick Rossi's reserved and detached demeanor
made the silent boat ride to the island and the drive to the castle the perfect cover.
He reclines against the warm cream-colored seat, glancing through the window as an owl croons in the distance, headlights scattering across the trees lining the carved path.
A silver Rolls-Royce glides alongside Rossi's Bentley, soft,
sophisticated music spilling from the castle as he steps out into the night.
Clair de Lune by Claude Debussy, he realizes.
A slow breath leaves him as his gaze sweeps across the surroundings.
Armed guards stationed throughout the castle grounds. Unmasked ministers of Miraeth welcoming guests with practiced smiles. A man in a crimson mask leaning against the Rolls-Royce, cigarette burning between his fingers as a woman in a peacock mask loops her arm through his.
At the castle entrance, a guard inspects his invitations first, then Rossi's credentials, while the couple waits in silence behind him. Beyond these doors,
private guards are forbidden.
A middle-aged minister in green silk robes with gold trim bows his head.
"Welcome back to Miraeth, Lord Rossi," he says, smiling.
Czar nods once as a fox-masked servant in a striped shirt and white suit steps before him and bows deeply. "This way, Lord Rossi. The inner hall is prepared."
With that, the attendant turns and leads the way, and Czar follows in silence.
Crystal chandeliers bathe the white corridor in gold, paintings lining the walls as music echoes through them, swallowing the sound of their boots, along with the cries of hundreds of children beneath the marble tiles underfoot in the chamber holdings.
Czar's jaw tightens at the thought. One hundred and eighty children, waiting for a midnight horror, in the name of ritual,
at the hands of these elites.
Two fox-masked attendees in striped shirts and white suits stand waiting at the crimson door, carved with demonic figures,
ancient symbols, and sacrificial motifs.
His stomach churns. He can never get used to it.
"You are awaited inside, Lord Rossi," the attendant bows and withdraws.
A guard opens the door for him. As Czar moves forward, he catches the crimson-masked guest behind him watching.
Beside him, the woman looks past Czar into the inner hall, her green eyes brightening at what she sees.
Expensive perfume and wine linger in the vast amber-lit hall,
beneath a towering crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling.
Paintings of Miraeth's ritualistic history line the walls,
rising into the vaulted space above.
"Mr. Rossi," a voice calls from behind him.
Czar turns.
The crimson-masked man, Samuel Wlachovský, a man in his late sixties, stands there with young Amara Mitchell at his arm.
"I didn't see you last year," Wlachovský says,
his voice carrying a thick Slovak accent.
"I was busy," Czar says, turning away as he walks forward.
Erick Rossi had been the ideal target among the identified guests, the president of an Italian security company.
High enough in rank to move with respect among elites,
and low enough in consequence to disappear without disruption.
He takes a seat at one of the round tables in the west corner, where china dishes sit untouched and neatly stacked around a flower vase beneath an antique candelabra.
A staff member approaches with glasses of wine.
He takes a glass of red Shiraz without a word,
nods once, and watches as the attendant bows and moves on to the next table.
He stirs the wine lightly and lifts the glass to his lips, his gaze drifting to Elias Ferguson, a former President of Erriador, now in his fifties, an unconvicted sex offender.
He once led a mission that rescued hundreds of children trafficked by Ferguson, ranging from three-year-olds to seventeen-year-olds.
Now he laughs and speaks business with the circle of billionaires and royalty around him, Prince Edward Holm of Norway and financier Johansen Fairfax among them.
Czar's grip tightens on the glass when he sees the young dark-haired girl in Ferguson's lap, his arm wrapped around her waist as she sits unnervingly still.
Her gaze slides toward him,
and Czar stills at the bleak moroseness shadowing those deep brown eyes. Without a flicker of expression, she turns away.
He frowns at the strange familiarity of her face. Had he seen her before?
He sets the glass down on the table and watches the guests sway to the soft orchestral melody drifting from the performers beside the stage, silk gowns, masks, laughter,
kisses, bodies pressed close beneath the haunting sound of the pianoforte and violin...
His thoughts cut off as Ferguson moves toward the centre with the girl at his arm.
He pulls out his full hunter pocket watch, gold glinting beneath the candlelight.
2:45 A.M.
Fifteen minutes left.
The music abruptly stops midway through the bridge. Nearby, two unmasked ministers in robes remain absorbed in a conversation too quiet for him to hear,
the older one counting slowly on his fingers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please," Ferguson's amplified voice echoes through the hall.
He stands at the center with one arm around the rigid girl, her bone-white skin stark against her dark wavy hair as the crowd's attention turns toward them.
"I introduce to you the world sensation, Niraya Lei, a pop star celebrated like no other!" Ferguson, now unmasked, says with a grin, drawing the girl closer. "And so young! May we have a round of applause?"
The girl winces as he kisses her cheek,
while a roar of cheers and applause rises from the guests.
Czar frowns. He had never heard of her.
She was the only guest companion he had been unable to identify.
"Nightingale, honor us with a song on this splendid evening."
With a grin, Ferguson places the microphone into her hand and steps back.
Czar rises from his seat, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket as the other loosely cradles the glass of wine.
He moves through the attentive guests gathered around the girl standing alone at the center of the hall,
heading toward the empty balcony when a voice dripping with honeyed sweetness and wine spills through the room.
But it is not her voice that raises goosebumps along his skin, but the deep, soulful verse woven through it, so out of place against the corruption of this hall.
"Eyes of a rogue river, restless and cold;
Lord, carry me home to the love I knew."
Czar leans against the railing, his gaze drifting over the cliffs and woods before settling on the old minister, whose face is steadily paling beneath the song.
He brushes a thumb along the inside of his jacket lapel. "Status."
Ace's voice murmurs through the invisible earpiece hidden deep within his ear canal. "All teams set."
"Stand by,'' Czar says quietly as the minister approaches the popstar.
"A heart of wildflowers, withered and drifting;
Lord, bury me within the ever-living soil,"
Niraya sings on, her voice fraying into a hoarse break by the final word.
Ferguson yanks the microphone from her hand and gives a hollow, humorless laugh. "Looks like it's time for tonight's main event."
Indeed,
the ministers begin ushering the guests beyond the hall toward the towering doors set between the converging staircases.
Czar pushes himself away from the railing and steps into the main hall, abandoning the untouched wine on a table as he follows the congregation of elites bound together in sin, his pulse sharpening with every step.