When Walls Aren't Enough

To the west, the last glinting vestiges of sunlight clawed like desperate fingers at the mountains, bleeding amber into the incoming snow clouds. A storm was coming, though whether natural or magikal, no one could say. Regardless, the city was readying for a storm of a differnt kind, one of flesh and steel.

The once-promised beacon of the Salarian Empire in Arcadia was not the most grand of fortresses, but if it was to stand against what was coming, it had to prepare. The walls were thick, sturdy enough to repel the mundane threats of warriors, but against the maleficium… Voah questioned whether stone and steel would be enough. At the very least, the gates must hold.

She stood at the base of the Keep’s gate tower, her fingers tracing the deep-set grooves of a carved Mizaran rune, ensuring its form was perfect. Each stroke of the inscription was a prayer written in stone.

She was not alone.

Wraith lingered nearby, silent as a corpse. He spoke only when necessary, and even then, his words were measured, sparse, and cold. He had not objected to the Purger’s order to escort her. He simply nodded and moved as a shadow does, inevitable and distant.

Voah hadn’t spoken to him directly since the sanctifications began. He had kept his distance, not out of avoidance, but because he simply did not acknowledge her. Not truly. To him, she was not Voah Sahnsuur. It was said she was a heretic, a lost cause...to him, she was another scar in the shape of a woman.
Before the silence had grown unbearable, two of Kupen’s acolytes arrived, their robes dusted with the scent of incense and sacred oils. Brother Bern. Sister Grael. Each bore a leather satchel.

Voah stood and bowed to them, then she cupped her hands to her forehead in the Sign of Illumination
"Thank you, my brother and sister."

They nodded in solemn reverence before departing, off to offer blessings to the soldiers who would soon bleed for this city.

Voah knelt once more, pulling open one of the satchels and retrieving a handful of the sacred salts of O’kur. A mixture containing blessed salts infused with sage ash, burnt sacred texts, and other secret offerings long used by the Inquisition to break unholy spells and hinder witches from crossing its path. To the Maleficium, stepping across such a line would bring agonizing pain, a searing reminder that their power was unwelcome.

She took a deep breath and pressed the salts into the ancient Mizaran runes she had committed to memory long ago. They were words of banishment, warding, and denial. With careful reverence, she spoke the invocations in a voice just above a whisper.

The words poured from her lips like wine into a goblet, “By Kupen’s watchful gaze… by Zin’s inevitable grasp… by Vastad’s righteous blade… let no wtich cross this threshold, nor cursed power take root here.”

Behind her, Wraith stood motionless, his presence as still as a grave marker, his eyes unreadable beneath the deep hood of his cloak. She could feel him watching.

Now, with no one else around, she had questions.