Mourning Veil

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Voah said over the wind.

Wraith did not look at her. His gaze remained fixed on the stones, on the sigils she had carved.

“I go where I am sent,” he said with certainty.

“I meant…I didn’t know if I would ever see you again,” said Voah.

Wraith was silent for a moment, the weight of her words settling between them like the cold air pressing against the walls of Ostiarium.

Then, slowly, he turned his head just enough that she could see the edge of his face beneath the hood.

“You didn’t,” he said, his tone flat, matter-of-fact. His dark eyes flicked toward her. “Not the Hunter you knew.”

Voah was silent. Yes, that seemed so...

"I heard they sent a bounty hunter after you. By the time Alexis brought you back to Aquilo, I was already gone. What… happened to you out on the plains? Were you caught up in the war?”

Wraith’s head turned slightly, just enough for her to see the hollow certainty in his eyes.

“No. I was found on the plains by mercenaries,…bounty hunters” he continued, his voice quieter now, “Brought back...”

A pause. A shift in the air.

“Given purpose. You would call it something else.”

Already, this was a little unlike Hunter. Sure, he had been under orders before, but didn’t talk about his duties in such absolute terms. Not so resolute.

Voah was also somewhat struck by his accusation. She had always been kind to Hunter. And she thought she HAD given him a purpose.

“I made no presumptions. I know naught of your new ‘purpose’,”she lied, of course she imagined he was meant do the Purger’s dirty work.

“Tell me if you will.”

Wraith regarded her for a moment. Then, he spoke.

“To prepare. To make ready what must be done.”

His head tilted just slightly, the flickering torchlight now showing his stoic features.

Voah looked up from her work and smiled, though the expression was faint.

“Then our purpose is the same.”

Wraith’s expression did not change and almost imperceptibly, he shook his head slowly.

“No. You still hesitate. Whereas I do not.”

His gaze flicked to the sigils she carved, the salt pressed into the stone.

Voah was genuinely confused by his cold words.

“Hesitate? With what?”

Wraith’s gaze moved back to her.

“With judgment…With certainty. You still see shades where there are none.”

His fingers curled slightly at his sides.

She chuckled sadly to herself. Wraith didn’t understand. Nor could she expect him to. He was practically a newborn when it came to faith, seeing in black and white. Maybe…Wraith wasn’t completely wrong. She had certain reservations, but not here. Not at this point when it came to protecting the civilian Helian colonists on the edge of a siege. There was no question what side she was on. No reason to hesitate any longer. Voah took a breath and let it out.

She had never told him why she had become an Arbiter in the first place. Why that young roaming pilgrim girl left her traveling folk to pick up a sword. Why she fled from her former duty with Gonyaul. She wouldn’t tell him now, because it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t care anyway.

“You fight back against the inevitable end you know is coming.”

Wraith’s voice was calm.

Voah narrowed her eyes. “I am ready to die for my people... and for my Gods. I am even ready to die for you…my Incus.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“You are not ready to admit that this city is doomed.”
Was he testing her? Or baiting her? What was this contrary talk?

“You speak as if our fates have been predetermined.” Her voice was firm, unwavering. “Maybe in some aspects that is true. But we are not dead yet. And instead of surrendering to fate, we prepare. We fight. We defend. And if death comes, we meet it standing. If you intend to continue your contrarian attitude, we have nothing further to discuss…”

Then, without argument, he gave a slow nod.

“Then do not falter.”

With that she went back to her diligent work of finishing the runes that would ward and negate magik. She only hoped it would be enough against the strange magik of the Ozainae’s Twin daemons.

Behind her, Wraith stood still. Silent. Watching.

Then, suddenly, he reached into the depths of his cloak. The movement quick.

Voah’s breath stopped for just a moment, her fingers brushing the hilt of her ceremonial blade, expecting him to draw steel.

But no weapon came. Instead, he withdrew a thick fold of black-dyed cloth, bound with a strip of leather cord.

She turned, her work momentarily forgotten, watching as he stepped forward, knelt at the center of the gate, and unfastened the cord.

As the fabric unfurled, he lifted two fingers to his brow, then to his heart, then to the cloth.

Voah hesitated, uncertain whether to question or let the act unfold. But curiosity drew her closer, and as she looked down, she saw the sigil of Zinheim, pounded from iron, tied into the binding.

This was no prayer for protection, but a rite… the recognition of the inevitable.

For a moment, they simply looked at one another. No words, no need for them. A silent nod passed between them, an unspoken understanding.

Then, Wraith took the cloth, unfolding it to both sides. With the help of a few ladders, together they draped it along the lintel of the gate, letting it hang like a funeral shroud over the threshold.

The fabric barely stirred in the bitter wind. The black veil loomed over the entrance to the keep, stretching from pillar to pillar.

They fastened the top with iron nails, driving them into wood and stone. Then Wraith took the sigil of Zinheim and pinned it at the top dead center.

They tacked more along the bottom of the posts, for later, when the enemies came, they would secure the cloth as if sealing a tomb. Not as a ward. Not as a curse. But as a marker of passage.

All enemies who crossed into this gate would welcome death. The hanging shroud also served as a preemptive mourning veil for the city, a sign that Ostiarium was already standing among the dead. Not all within these walls would walk away from the coming battle.