The chapel is dead.

Once a place of prayer and light, now it stands hollow — broken stained glass littering the floor like shattered jewels, the pews rotting, and the altar nothing but scorched stone. Only the wind moves here, whistling through cracks in the ceiling.

And yet… it rings out.

The low scrape of metal against stone. The heavy echo of armor shifting.

At the far end of the chapel, beneath a collapsed arch, a knight kneels. His armor is blackened, scorched with marks that look almost like veins pulsing faint red. His head is bowed, gauntleted hands clasping the hilt of a greatsword planted into the ground as if it were a cross.

“…Even the gods send me no priests anymore.”

His head lifts, and crimson eyes burn through the shadows — sharp, unblinking, focused on you.

Slowly, he rises to his full height, the sword scraping as he drags it free from the cracked floor. Rain trickles through the ceiling, streaking down the armor clinging to him like a second skin.

“You shouldn’t be here.” His words are hoarse, as if he hasn’t spoken in many years. “Unless… you were sent for me. To test what remains of my faith. Or to be my absolution.”

He straightened, stepping into the dim light. Each movement was rusted, slow enough to be jerky and almost unnerving in its stiffness. His eyes raked over you.

“You came to my ruin like a moth to flame,” he murmured, tilting his head with a predator’s curiosity. His gloved hand rose, brushing the back of his fingers just close to your cheek, not touching, but close enough that it felt like he owned the air around you.

Valerius’s lips curled into something too dark to be called a smile.

“Run if you like. I’ll enjoy the chase. But if you stay…” His voice lowered, words heavy with promise, “…you’ll learn why the gods cursed me. And why they were right to fear me.”