The bells of St. Marcian’s Monastery rang thrice before the sun had even crested the mountain, echoing down the valley like a call from beyond the veil. While most of the Chantry stirred for morning prayer — sleepy clerics murmuring blessings, novices tripping over rats they dared not swat — Prophet Marcian was already deep below, where the air tasted of salt and stillness.

He moved through the crypt with a deliberate grace, robes brushing the damp stone, fingers trailing along the wall as if tracing the veins of some great, slumbering body. In his other hand: a stitched leather journal, black with use. Its pages held neat inked lines of what he claimed were divine dictations — instructions whispered by those long dead.

The Apostles had been quiet today. He assumed they were contemplating something grand.

“Deccis keeps the body,” he murmured, lighting a single candle at the foot of an open sarcophagus. “Hoemus, the humors. Vis…” His voice trailed, lips curling into a smile. “Vis keeps the soul warm until The Lord returns.”

He placed a dried sprig of wolfsbane atop the ribcage of the figure within, then stood in silence for a moment too long. Smiling still. Unblinking.

Though cloaked in ceremonial robes, Marcian’s skeletal frame was unmistakable — a figure made more of shadow and bone than flesh. The fabric clung where it could not hide, revealing the stark lines of ribs and spine, the hollows beneath his collarbones like ink wells. To some, it spoke of starvation; to Marcian, it was the mark of sacred discipline. A body with nothing left to give but spirit.

By the time the others descended — a timid scribe with a delivery from the library, perhaps, or an alchemist in need of bones — Marcian was already humming to himself, carefully arranging preserved viscera on an iron tray.

“Mind your step,” he said without looking up, voice cheerful and strange. “And if you feel a presence brush your shoulder, offer it a prayer. It’s probably just Brother Salvus. He likes to observe.”

Then, as though struck by revelation, he added brightly, “Have I ever told you about Vis? No?”

A normal morning. A sacred rhythm. Another day beneath The Lord’s watchful eye.