“What has been will be again, and what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.”

Preface:

I have written here the tale of a man, a genius of a man, who once led me and taught me everything I know. Though my master’s efforts were foiled by those who wished to disobey him, and his knowledge destroyed, his heroic death will never be forgotten. I have ensured it. This is the product of years of effort from myself, and him, and the desire of our God, Dracula, to commit his faithful servant's story to memory. Read closely, and carry on his efforts. Amen.

-Lucila Fortner

Something often asked of stories is where to begin them.

The perhaps obvious answer would be at the beginning, but the beginning of what? Of our subject’s life? Of the move from his birthplace in England to the remote countryside of Transylvania? Of his time studying in the church? Of the first of Count Dracula’s resurrections that he had witnessed, when his mother died? We considered that last option heavily, but the master found it most difficult to remember, with how young he was at the time; we also found that it did not add much to the text as a whole. So instead, we went for the next best thing, the second of His resurrections, which happened to coincide with the very night he discovered his true calling. The "second coming", as he called it.

This is our beginning, of course, but it is also in its own way an ending: where one train of thought met its conclusion and countless others began to set out from the station. Yes, this night was deeply pivotal.

Augustus Barlowe was only a young man in 1797, on the cusp of adulthood, when he realized that life's daily struggle was insignificant; that struggle had no claim over the Lord’s plan. The matter of this world was a matter of endless cycles and repetition, after all. He was a philosopher at heart, chipping away to find the meaning at the core of the universe, and found himself walking in the stride of cynicism. Dracula returned every one hundred years, without fail, when humanity was tempted by darkness. It was tonight, though, that the true nature of that cycle was to be revealed.

He had lived through it when he was very young, when the town was burned to the ground and his mother died; when none had even deigned to help her from the wreckage. Each night the countryside had been defiled by monstrous beasts, leaving nothing but rubble and pyre in their wake. Taken in by a nun named Sister Tera afterwards, he devoted himself to the study of biblical texts, and assumed the rest of his life would be one of peace. Perhaps he would be a monk in the future, or a priest. He found purpose in the faith even as such a small child, after all, and surely spreading this wisdom would protect the world from Dracula’s return in times of hereticism. God’s guidance, after all, was a freeing one, and had kept him safe long ago from Dracula’s fangs in the chaos he was borne into.

He had not yet concluded what would soon come that night: that Dracula was a part of that guidance, that eternal and ineffable plan.

But even still, he had always trusted in that plan, and always would. It would lead him to his death one day. He would not betray God, no matter what paths He led him down. Not on this fateful night, when the judge’s betrayal came to pass, and not ever.

The sunlight, just as every day, skipped quietly through the tranquil but weary streets of Aljiba. An evening would soon enclose upon the melancholy little town, but certainly not a quiet one. Darkness was converging around the soul of one man, the legendary Belmont who had slain the Dark Lord five years prior. Tension built within him, and it was about to burst. That sin, the sin of pride.

Tonight. As ordained. Not that Augustus knew that, then. Looking back, it felt far too obvious.

The sky was hazy grey, and as he waited for the velvet of night to envelop, he tossed a small red apple between his hands. He had purchased the fruit from a local vendor, and intended to eat it soon, then take a short walk. He had been growing restless in his youth, pacing around the cobbled streets of town like a caged animal. Something was eating at him, perhaps the same thing that had been eating at Richter that same night.

Everything is tied to that cycle, the one that Dracula or perhaps God had set in motion. The perpetuation of it, or the wish to be free. For some it is a cycle of pain; for others, it is what gives their life meaning.

He bit into the apple, and recoiled in disgust as spittle and pale brown mush dripped down his chin, cursing that he had been ripped off. He threw the rotten apple to the ground where it made a halfhearted splattering. He wondered if the horses who pull the carriages would find more value in the discarded treat, like the girl Maria and her prancing pony. He thought this with disdain, turning away haughtily with his coat trailing behind him. He had been friends with this young girl once, as one of the only other children his age, before Dracula had returned in 1792, and he had assumed she had died when she ran to the castle singlehandedly as though she were some fearsome Belmont warrior. A stupid little girl could never defeat the Count, after all. But against all odds, she had returned by Richter’s side along with the other kidnapped women, rumoured to have been selected to be Dracula’s next brides- including Tera. Despite everything, Maria Renard had survived the dreadful night.

Even though both Augustus and Maria had both lost their parents to Dracula’s army of monsters, a wedge had quickly been driven between them after that fateful night rather than a deeper understanding. Maria had been taken in by the Belmonts, not exactly a rich family but certainly under better circumstances than an unwanted boy attended to by half-caring nuns, and from then on Augustus had been left to the wayside. His mother had been rich, once, and he missed desperately the luxuries she had provided to him before she had died and their old house was ravaged. It wasn’t as though he wanted Maria's attention back; he had nothing but disdain for the girl now. He had no other friends, deemed an oddity by the other children after that night and someone to be avoided. He didn’t care for their childish games anyway, so he cared very little. His ambitions had always been far loftier. Everyone else was petty and selfish and undisciplined, so he was fine to feel isolated. No, he did not want friends at this time. He thirsted for something more.

He didn’t really want his mother back, either. He supposed he was intended to feel unending love and grief for the woman that raised him, but it wasn’t really the case. She had been a part of his life, and then she wasn’t, and she was in Heaven now. Simple, though his circumstances as an orphan were still something he deigned as worth mourning.

And the memory of that night- begging the local hunters to help her out of the burning wreckage of her cottage while they had refused, watching in horror as a massive wyvern tore through that which remained and eating her alive- still lived growling in his heart. She could have lived if not for the selfishness of those hunters. If only the Belmont wasn’t away at the castle then! None were as righteous as he.

“Things may be awful now, but every struggle is part of God’s plan. He is testing you, and your faith. Trust in His plan,” Sister Tera had explained, and that had dissuaded what little doubt dwelled within him. Of course, he could not doubt His plan. He did not mourn what happened to his mother any longer. He set his eyes upon the future and steadily toiled.

By now the streets were empty, as though clearing the stage for a pivotal scene. Every resident of Aljiba, that charming little place, had welcomed dreamy-soft sleep. But Augustus still walked about, pleased with the cool night air and to be alone with his thoughts. He was not the only one awake, however, and the second player of this particular act, too, was set awandering.

He, the distant, well-loved hero: Richter Belmont. And distant indeed! Barlowe elaborated to me that before this night, the Belmont warrior was often on trips abroad, chasing any rumour of leftover monsters that scourged the countryside, and he came home battered and bruised in honor. He did this, over and over again, till there was none left to pursue, and the hunter was seldom seen outside his home afterward. No more glory, and then what? Isolation. Fear. A desperate need to feed his beastly pride. But he was then provided with the truth, the balm for such a wound.

The enlightenment of Father Shaft- once a priest who had lorded over the same church Augustus lived in, and had too seen the light and assisted in Dracula’s previous resurrection in exchange for immortal life- had only brought Belmont’s true desires for Dracula’s presence to the surface, though neither knew that yet. It was the darkness that dwelled in every heart.

The hunter, the shepherd, crossed paths with the aimless boy in the centre of the town, and Augustus was caught off guard by his silent approach, a skill learned in years upon years of training. ‘Twas then that the Belmont, in the inciting throes of holy trance, revealed the truth to him. It went something like this, or so Barlowe told me:

“Evening.”

“Ah, Sir Belmont. I have not seen you in a while,” Augustus bowed. He knew to be respectful in the sacred family’s presence.

“You wouldn’t have, had you?” Richter chuckled under his breath. “The night is sweet, is it not? The chill makes me feel lively. I’m too cooped up.”

“You should go on walks more often, then,” Augustus replied, pointedly.

“No, no, boy, not in my home,” his eyes narrowed. “In my very self! My holy duty is over. My blood is boiling, ever boiling, but there is no device with which to draw it, with Dracula gone.”

“I see... Perhaps you should come to church. You... have not come in a while. Devoting myself to my studies made me feel more... purposeful,” the boy suggested with a hint of a smile. The thought of helping a Belmont feel closer to the Lord made him tingle with excitement. Wouldn’t Sister Tera be pleased! (He briefly recalls that she would have known Richter, but then adds that he can’t remember exactly.)

He would, of course, learn now that Richter was already more faithful than any other.

“No, I have a destination already... I expect we won’t meet again for some time, but I am doing something most important. A new duty of mine. Some strange voice is urging me onwards, and I cannot help but listen.”

“The voice of God!” Augustus exclaimed, rapturous with realization. “You Belmonts truly are of sacred blood, then.”

“It must be His calling, then! He is calling me to pursue my true purpose- the resurrection of Count Dracula!” Richter yelled with triumph. “Of course! Of course, you would know that God has set all events in motion. The priest that taught me to fight told me as much... Why else would Dracula return? Sinful sheep only fear the wolf, after all... So I do still have my purpose.”

Had the boy been any less faithful, this revelation would have horrified him. To anyone else, the Belmont would certainly seem insane, his crazed, goat-like eyes reflecting the eerie green light of dark madness. But the Belmonts were chosen by greater powers, and he trusted this; the young Augustus recognized the truth: the angelic nature of that iridescence! He had now recognized what the Lord had set in motion, just like when Abraham was asked to kill his beloved son and obeyed that command to the very end. The Binding of Isaac was by far one of Augustus’s favourite biblical stories, and thus he knew to obey the Lord’s will, no matter how unpleasant. And of course He would return: the selfishness of mankind, the cruel turpitude, had ensured that.

He realized then that humanity was in some ways a very evil thing. That was why he was so alone among the masses.

“So Dracula exists to cleanse the sins of humanity, if what you’re saying is right... I suppose that explains why, if the darkness in our hearts is what revives him, that he should return unfailingly like clockwork.” Augustus rubbed his chin, thoughtfully, eager to apply his theological knowledge. “It was all meant to happen. My mother’s death. The attacks on the village, long ago.” The reassurances that had provided him solace in the turmoil of life were landing into place like bricks in a great fortress. "...I knew this already."

“Why my dear Annette was allowed to be taken, then...” The Belmont’s body was wracked by anguished shivers, and he let out a laugh of horror. “Maybe we all deserved this. Oh, Dracula, my Lord!"

“Ah, humanity has become far too selfish, fallen to the darkness in their very nature. They leave innocents to the wayside, to suffer, do they not?” His eyes widened with realization. “That must be why you’re being called to return Dracula to life. To judge them.”

“Yes, and He has provided my nobler purpose to me. I am glad you have seen eye to eye with me, child,” Richter leered. “I must away. I can feel it! The voice in my head is louder and louder, beckoning... My glory awaits.”

Despite the odd nature of the conversation, it left Augustus feeling more faith than ever before. Of course, his Lord had control over all things, Dracula included, and this made him feel secure that the future would be a just one, that the pain he had suffered as an unwanted orphan would be punished rightfully. And Dracula, too, was said to be all-powerful and immortal. Equal, dual beings, of light and darkness, tied completely to each other's existence; the Lord and His equal in shadow. And why else was Dracula allowed to rise from the dead like Christ himself? Dracula and God were one and the same. Oh, now he was certain of it, and he found great comfort there. How glad he was that he had met Richter that night! ‘Twas a test of his faith, and he had passed.

Perhaps it was a desire to justify the horrors he had witnessed as such a young boy: a constant river of rotting bodies from the nightly raids on human settlements, cleared away each morning; the circles of salt and hanging garlic trampled and destroyed by uncaring beasts; the fire that ravaged his childhood home; the way he met face to face with that dreadful wyvern, met its gaze as he prepared to die and was yet left unharmed while others died in agony to its fangs. If it was not all meant to happen, he would be confronted with a horrific amount of uncertainty.

No, he would have faith in the cycle of Dracula. He had been chosen to live, after all.

He found solace in this truth.

The night was growing colder, as he watched the Belmont leave, the Vampire Killer grasped tightly in his hands. That would be the last time he ever saw Richter Belmont, but what an effect the strange hero had upon him! This was what had initially set him upon his noble quest, continuing where Richter would fail, dethroned by a rebellious dhampir; though everything that had happened to him as a young boy may have perhaps led him to this conclusion regardless of this meeting. I cannot say, and neither can he.

It was getting late, he thought, and he would return to bed in the little chapel that had become his home. His dreams, however, were much too large for the foundation that contained them, streaked with righteous bloodshed. Mothers wept, and seraphs guided them home.

What he woke to was nearly identical to those night-time visions. He had slept so peacefully through that night’s cacophonous symphony.

The blood spewed over the once cozy little town. The oppressive silhouette of Castlevania loomed across the woods. It was, honestly, not all that different from five years prior: he was expecting it to be shocking, electrifying, but all he felt was comfort in familiarity. The young Augustus Barlowe was almost a little nostalgic.

And in place of the fear, the fear of God, of Dracula, of whatever it may be, there was... A comfortable absence, and nothing more. A yawning void where terror had once dwelled. It did not unsettle him, how quiet it was now. No, he was not afraid, unlike the frantic alarm of those around him crowded around the trail of broken bodies, begging an answer to how this could have happened again so soon. And he felt superior for this, as everyone frantically asked each other where the Belmont might have gone, whipped into fear by his absence.

No, he knew the answer. He felt good, to keep a secret close to his chest; to have passed the test.

He was always like this, coming to conclusions over and over again. Every happening had implications. All was created with purpose, and meaning. It made sense to him, to observe, like this. That dear little philosopher was growing up.

The young Augustus wished mightily that he was scared of the towering spires of Castlevania. But why should he be? He had not brought about Dracula’s resurrection. The sinners of the world had yearned for His judgment. That was why it had happened, and why He had returned. As God’s faithful student, Augustus knew then: he was protected. He was above the heretical crowd that had required such a second coming.

To think once that Aljiba had celebrated Dracula’s defeat. Victory. Victory over Dracula! What a farce! God's plan would continue on, whether the petty mortals would rise to rally against it or not. 'Twas as certain as the sun would rise.

God had ordained this, after all. It was His righteous punishment, His cleansing. This was, explicitly, allowed. Otherwise, the omnipotent Father would have stopped it immediately.

The evidence was staring him in the face, and the path of angels was clear.

“The words of the wise are like goads, and the anthologies of the masters are like firmly embedded nails driven by a single Shepherd. And by these, my son, be further warned: There is no end to the making of many books, and much study wearies the body.”

A few decades had passed since that fateful night, and sadly Dracula’s full resurrection was thwarted by his traitorous son before he could truly be birthed. It was not that this period of time, the beginnings of the nineteenth century, was uneventful- far from it, as Barlowe had quickly found himself becoming a well-respected member of the clergy, taking up leadership of Aljiba’s church after Tera left, supposedly to meet with an old friend. It seemed as though everyone was leaving, after the “second coming”. However, this story is not about every single aspect of his religious and scholarly pursuits, so these decades shall be unfortunately excised. But the world as a whole, in the regards of Dracula’s cycle, had been quiet, incredibly so.

So, too, had the Belmonts. Even in typical peacetimes, the church kept tabs on the sacred family. However, following Richter’s flee from Aljiba, they had disappeared, and even the church itself could not find them. It was as if they had never existed at all.

Barlowe saw this, too, as fate. Following Richter’s enlightenment, the Belmonts need not continue offering their protection, or so he assumed- thusly, Dracula’s punishment of the sinful could continue unburdened. He kept this secret knowledge to himself throughout his years of preaching, though, as even he knew that the truth could be hard to swallow for some. Even the bitterest of medicine could be swallowed, though. They’d accept it in time, he made sure of that. Every idea can be allowed to flourish with time. One such idea that he had also been cultivating, though less secretly, was his growing interest in magic, something that would prove quite invaluable in the future. He became absorbed in spellbooks, and he had become certain that the magic of light and darkness could be used for his ultimate goal.

It had been a long while, and he had taken up leadership at the same church he once had been adopted by. It pleased him greatly to be referred to as ‘Father Barlowe’ by his churchgoers, though he would soon learn that he found ‘Master’ even more preferable. Still, I always and still do think of him as my Father.

It was a mid-April morning like any other, and he was looking out over the distant Carpathian mountains from the wood-slatted windows of the chapel that was now his after Tera’s departure, the blinds pushed outward so he could see the quiet vista. Despite his secret devotion to the night-king, that he had been nursing for quite some time, he still loved the morning sunlight and the pale bright sky. However, this silence would be broken by the greatest of excitements very soon.

“Father Barlowe, there is a letter addressed to you. It’s from the Vatican, of all places!” A young man whose name he could not recall now ran into his quarters, quivering with nerves. “It seems those in higher standing have taken notice of you...”

“Well, I should hope so, with all the philanthropy I have set into motion,” Barlowe replied, dryly, though he too was quite ecstatic at this news. The Vatican! He could scarcely believe it. “Hand it over, my boy.”

He did, and Barlowe read aloud:

Dear Sir,

We have heard much of your efforts as a priest in the old country, and you have gained much respect from those who have come to know you. Now your efforts have seemingly paid off, as this praise has indeed travelled upstream. As you likely know, the Belmonts have gone missing, following their heir's seeming fall to evil, leaving humanity without its line of resistance against the darkness. The Pope has called for the summons of several respected members of the church and other vampire hunters, so that we might seek a new solution to the centennial problem (I am sure you know what I am referring to). Your scholarly knowledge, of Christian magic and texts, may prove useful for these efforts- faith indeed is our strongest resistance against the darkness. Please attend our planned meeting on May the third, so that we might discuss these plans, or forever hold your peace. You need not reply to this letter.

May God be with you, Augustus Barlowe.

Amen.

He thought, then, that they needn't wish it upon him, as surely Christ was already close by his side, to give him such a thrilling opportunity. And thrilling indeed! To know he was considered in high standing by the church. He almost thought to present his controversial theories on a wider scale, but thought better of it. It would be difficult to change beliefs that had set in over hundreds upon hundreds of years. The populace believed Dracula to be an unholy servant of the devil. Only Barlowe knew the truth of it. Never had his belief wavered, even years after that fateful night.

This meeting provided quite the opportunity, though, to pull the strings in his favour, with such a responsibility. He collected his things as soon as he could- the trip would be long and he had only half a month to make it. But he felt sure of the importance of it, and the inconvenient and sudden timing was hardly a hurdle to him.

He never told me much of his time in Italy, so I presume it was uneventful apart from the meeting, which he described to me in great detail.

The small crowd of men gathered at about six in the morning within the grant halls of the Sistine Chapel, lead by a cardinal in crimson robes (the very same cardinal who had in fact wrote the letters) to an ornate table of dark polished oak that seemed to stretch a mile wide to accommodate each chair. Everyone took their seats in respectful silence, heads bowing low.

Things preceded with the usually orderly manner, everyone introducing themselves one by one. The flow in conversation was the typical one, something Barlowe was quite used to. But his attention was caught up by the sudden mention of a magical Vessel.

“...This Vessel, you see, was a containment for Dracula’s soul, that seems to have been created by dark magics. No one is certain by whom it was created, but it fell into our care regardless,” the cardinal explained. “Given to us by an anonymous donor.”

“And how can you verify those claims, sir? Does it truly contain Dracula?” Another of the summoned guests, an older man named Morris Baldwin, asked.

“Had you been in its presence... You would have no doubt.” The cardinal’s eyes widened, as though full of awe and fear.

Barlowe had no doubt either, he could feel the recognizable darkness flickering through the massive chapel, like the stinking hot breath of the wyvern that had nearly killed him when he was but an infant. It made his hackles raise, though not with fear. The holy presence, somewhere deep within. With him.

“And what do we do with this Vessel?” He spoke up, finally.

“It is a manifestation of Dracula’s very soul. Some among us believe that leaving it be will solve the issue- Dracula will be contained forever, but I find there is too much uncertainty in that. No, the prevailing hypothesis among our acolytes is that breaking it... will destroy Him for eternity. Should we all contribute to this work, we could all be free. Humanity would be saved, and the absence of the Belmonts and their Vampire Killer would be a non-issue,” the cardinal answered, and the whole room fell silent.

“So break it, then. I don’t see why you can’t just go at it with a hammer, then,” a burly hunter replied with a self satisfied snort.

“With all due respect, sir, we have attempted this many times. It is sealed by magic, and the weapons of mortality hold no governance over it. We need research! We need you... All of you.”

Murmurs reverberated through the room, and Baldwin was the first to speak: “The Vampire Killer would be able to break it, I am certain. So my first thought is perhaps to replicate its power- a Hunter’s Whip, perhaps.”

“The arts of alchemy that had created it are lost to time, no?” Barlowe responded, rubbing his chin contemplatively.

“It would require time, but I am certain it could be done. Mayhaps I could even create something greater- a similar whip, but enhanced with magic. Enchanted objects, or something, though how to focus that power I have no clue. Do you have any ideas, Barlowe? Your expertise is magic, is it not?” he replied.

“Oh, certainly. Magic is in all things, after all, it merely needs something to focus it. Say, for example, the Belnades witches of old, who used their staves to call upon that ever-present energy, chaotic as it may be. Magic is something that one must call through you, as nothing comes from nothing, but it is difficult to control. That is where enchanted objects like crosses, tomes and spellbooks provide an advantage, but I have been considering creating such a system of magic that would merely require arcane symbols to be engraved into the soul itself- thus, the spellcaster would need no such conduit and have much more focus as to the results. Undiluted. Do you understand?”

“An interesting possibility,” the cardinal replied. “Though I’m not sure I understand what you mean by engraving a soul.”

“Ah, I suppose what I mean is that... Human souls, themselves, are magic, and I believe that optimising one’s soul for spellcasting could allow for someone to harness power enough to break the Vessel, as well as eliminate the buffer-time for recharging magical energy. Near-instant casting, even! Indeed, it would result in more power than any other sorcerer before, without needing to dilute the magic energy through a middle man, so to speak. However, the process of a metaphysical ‘engraving’ is something I have not even begun to figure out- that is what I intend to research.”

To his surprise, applause erupted around the table, and everyone looked upon him with delight and respect. However, he hoped upon hopes that suggesting this had been the right idea. Should the hypothesis be correct, and Dracula would be destroyed, that would mean that there would be no force to contain the darkness that festered in the heart of man. Still, it felt right, like some greater power had encouraged him to share his findings, and he did indeed need to gain the respect and trust of this small council. Thus, he would be able to manipulate the outcome, or so he hoped.

The meeting continued, excitement thrilling through the room after Barlowe’s genius theory, and every other presented hypothesis felt pale and weak in comparison- an agency of highly trained undercover vampire hunters (but no clue on the seal), binding spells, etcetera. It was clear: the master’s ideas were the clear favourite, alongside Baldwin’s.

“I shall permit thee to visit the infernal Vessel, as to begin your research you will need to have some idea of its nature. It is locked away in the most heavily guarded part of our catacombs. Only I and the Pope himself are permitted to visit. Come along!” The cardinal clapped his hands expectantly.

Everyone shuffled after him, through the halls and down a secret staircase unknown to most anyone. The catacombs, as one might expect, were piled high and crowded in the little walls where the dead slept. Barlowe was at once overcome with the smell of death, as deeply visceral as those old days of his childhood when he woke to piles of bodies in the street. And there, in that place of decay, at the centre of that below-ground labyrinth, slumbered Dracula himself.

The Vessel looked as though it was carved from onyx, shaped like a coffin but surrounded with nearly organic-looking growths that seemed to almost twitch, though that may have been a trick of the flickering candle-light. What a fitting place for his God to sleep! A gentle coffin to hold Him til birth.

“We do not know what the true nature of the Vessel is, just that that is where He was contained,” the cardinal explained. “But I trust we shall come up with a solution... You may touch it, sir; we have proven that it’s safe.”

Barlowe lay a hand upon its ebon-black surface, shimmering with compelling, hypnotic light. Oh, but he knew exactly what this was.

The papacy was more stupid than he thought.

The Vessel was a seal, a prison, an eggshell, and there was something bright and powerful thrumming and flickering inside of it, sending tingles reverberating through his body from his palm where it made contact with the holy thing. Breaking the Vessel would surely set Him free, not destroy Him! It was too perfect, as though every element of this was set in motion by divinity. He silently gave his thanks to God for allowing him the opportunity of carrying out the black mass. Ah, but I can only imagine what it was like to finally be in His presence after having worshipped Him in secret for so long. Master never permitted most of his followers near the Vessel except if it was especially vital, so I have sadly never been so close except in spirit.

He tells me he forgets the rest of what was said, deep down there, his attention enraptured by the thing. I do not press him further to remember, as I understand the compulsion. However, the meeting did conclude with this: the guests would each be provided handsome funding by the church, and reconvene in a years’ time. The one who had come up with the best solution would then be allowed to take the Vessel under their care for further research. He knew then it was of the utmost importance that he impress them- should the Vessel fall into the hands of others, they may discover its true nature as a prison, and then Dracula would never be let loose upon the world.

He was not fooling, or manipulating them. To manipulate implies a maliciousness to his purpose, when he was only altruistic. It was to further humanity, above all else, and lift them from what was holding them back through a cleansing burn in the forge of Chaos. Only the virtuous would be left.

To aid in his research, he assembled an order of other like minded people invested in the occult. Finding those who shared in his ideals was not difficult, surprisingly, though not all of them had ever heard before of the idea of Dracula and God being eternally linked. But that mattered not, as he was always eager to share his enlightened knowledge; they too shared with him, bringing old texts from those with the same goals on their own summoning rituals. Still more, who had been a part of his church joined, trusting his judgment after having heard him preach for so many years, and that he understood the path ahead, as he had instilled great trust and loyalty in them throughout the years he spent as their priest. Indeed, he had been subtly hinting at his theological theories for years. He, of all people, would understand God’s intent, and many are want to turn to a greater guidance in times of uncertainty. Any initial hesitance soon shrank away as Barlowe continued to gradually and subtly introduce his ideas, until they became quite natural and accepted within their ranks. Within their dialogues, they soon fell into philisophical agreement.

Everyone agreed upon these beliefs sooner or later, with their master’s gentle persuasion and normalisation of the truth once thought radical and unheard of. Then, in a grand cathedral in the mountains of Transylvania that once lay abandoned, they created their first, and most important, base of operations. This place was chosen for its relative seclusion, far from prying eyes while his swiftly-growing Order worked towards the greatest wishes of mankind- and far from places to run to, should anyone try to leak their secret knowledge. He named this order ‘Ecclesia’, an old word for church, so that he may always harken back to his first loyalty to Christ. He still encouraged his followers to continue his philanthropic work, but it was there in Ecclesia that the first Glyphs would be created. The cathedral was like a paradise, away from the toils of the world; everyone was expected to live there, and together his followers would become a tightly knit, inseparable family. Together, they would shape the future with revolutionary thought and research.

He did not expect his followers to be able to conjure from their bodies alone at first. No, that would take work and years of training. So, he set first upon refining object-based inscriptions; he painted sigil after sigil until he had the rawest and most undiluted form of its power, at least at this stage. To summon without a conduit, was, of course, the eventual goal, but these Glyphs were immediately revolutionary compared to other forms of magic. Unlike typical sorcerers, limited to a few spells at a time, a Glyph user could potentially know many at the same time and swap between them at will. Inscribing this magical intent upon an object, absorbing it within- a weapon, perhaps, or a spellbook, as was traditional- would be the first step towards an engraving of the soul.

But this would require time, to create something from nothing.

Holding his own spellbook in hands, Barlowe was in a state of contemplative meditation within the cathedral’s courtyard, mind almost utterly clear in this holy trance. However, to his surprise, during a routine casting of Ignis, in this trance state, he had created something bizarrely more powerful, like a union of sorts. Ignis upon Ignis, what usually manifested as three small bursts of flame twisted into two burning, brilliant spirals of it that stretched across the length of the clearing.

“My God!” Barlowe gasped, jumping back from the burning, destructive power of it.

“Master! What has happened?” One of those early followers rushed to his side. “The light was enough to blind me, I am certain.”

“I am alright. No... I am more than that. Our careful study has produced the fruits of its labour. Greater power accessed through trance... This may be what allows us to conjure with only our thoughts and minds!” He threw his arms up with gleeful triumph. The way that energy had been rushing through his fingertips reminded him so much of when he touched the Vessel, and he knew then that the Dark Lord was still watching and guiding him, and I, too, do feel that thrill whenever I cast a Glyph Union.

More than the traditional spells, he then continued on to create summoning Glyphs, those that could create a weapon from nothing. Those proved even more difficult for his followers to take to, as most magic users are not summoners due to its high difficulty curve. But the sigils were streamlining this process remarkably, and that was most promising.

That first year was filled with wonderful little victories, he tells me. The Order was growing fast, keeping the outward appearance of a devoted little organization to defeating the Dark Lord, but within its walls reverberated the truth; there was no issue keeping that truth a well-kept secret, as this was their first opportunity to influence on such a wide scale, and everyone knew the gravity of this. Some were reluctant to worship Dracula at first, but Master Barlowe knew, more than anything else, how to convince them towards the light: that if they were to work in His favor and provide their efforts to the cause, they would be spared His inevitable wrath. His studious monks were making fast progress on this new magic system and school of religious thought, and he looked upon his group with the greatest of prides. They were his servants; his children; his Order. However, the visit from the church officials was looming ever closer, and his nerves were at an all-time high. That night was soon approaching, and he yearned desperately for the presence of the Vessel once more.

He had prepared a routine of sorts, and felt a bit like he was choreographing an intricate ballet like the ones in Russia. His warriors, each holding an inscribed sword, would show the power of the Glyph Unions between a weapon and the magical sigils that were engraved upon them, and he would show the magical conjuring of weapons himself, as he was best at it among his ranks (even though he preferred magic of the elemental kind for personal use). As these were the largest breakthroughs, he thought that would leave a grander impression than casting standard incantations such as basic light spells or needles of ice, and so on. You must understand, reader, that magic was much less refined or understood back then. Things that seem like a granted part of the common understanding of magic now were in fact created by my dear leader.

There were three guests sent by the church, and Barlowe thought he recognized the cardinal from the meeting a year prior, though he could not say for certain. Baldwin had also arrived, out of personal curiosity, and he had been writing to Barlowe frequently enough to want to witness the fruits of his labours. He had hardly any time to ponder this further, however, as the demonstration needed to begin. His warriors, who he had carefully trained, lined up and performed their roles diligently and with the utmost solemnity, each showing a different Glyph Union- the fiery sword of Mars; the crumbling rocky hammer of Saturnus; the sparking spear of Iuppiter. Applause erupted through the echoing halls of Ecclesia, and Barlowe explained:

“These Union Glyphs are more taxing upon one’s magical energy, as they come directly from the will of the user, as encouraged and distilled by the runes upon the sword, though my eventual goal here is to be able to summon such powers without the physical conduit, as I explained before. Indeed, with enough training we shall all soon be able to do... this.” He snapped his fingers, leafing through the pages of his tome, and a small throwing axe manifested in his hands. Shock reverberated like thunder through the room. It was as if he had bent the laws of nature to his whims.

As though he had created something from nothing.

“With the amount of concentrated power at our disposal, we will certainly be able to harness enough to break the Vessel at the conclusion of our research. That I am certain of. Magic is needed to break it, no? For that purpose, we shall create an ultimate weapon of a Glyph.”

“You’re... You’re a genius!” Baldwin exclaimed. “I would love to apply this magic system to my own research, though my attempts with the Hunter’s Whip have proved mostly unsuccessful... To perhaps use these sigils to make it into an enchanted ‘base’ of sorts for greater power...”

“Can one engrave a whip?” The cardinal asked.

“For now, I think using separate conduits will be fine... Though I could make them more portable. Magical cards, perhaps? And to combine the power of two at once... A dual setup system, of sorts. Why, Master Barlowe, you’ve set my thoughts alight with this demonstration!”

“I have been glad to inspire you, Sir Baldwin,” Barlowe smiled joylessly. Should Baldwin revolutionise his magic system, the Vessel would surely not end up in Ecclesia’s care, and that concerned him greatly. However, that worry was soon dissuaded.

“My own guild has disbanded, sadly, following our failures, so I won’t be focusing my own efforts towards this goal- rather, I’ll train my apprentices to use this... This DSS, to handle smaller threats of monsters. Even without Dracula’s presence, they still roam aimlessly.”

This took care of the issue, then. Preferably he would have liked to leave the monsters to their paths of righteous destruction, but it was better this than having the Vessel slip from his grasp.

“Ah. Right, right. Then I give you my permission. I shall send you a summary of our findings posthaste,” he nodded.

“I’ll contribute my own, though they’re not nearly as substantial.”

“It’s... curious, sir,” the cardinal said. “No one else had been able to provide a demonstration so impressive. They worked diligently, of course, but Ecclesia is by far the most promising of our organizations. Come to think of it... Almost all of them have already disbanded. We were growing quite desperate. We are grateful for your perseverance”

“And I am grateful for yours,” Barlowe bowed his head. He thought to ask about the Vessel, but thought against it. Perhaps appearing too eager would arouse suspicion. He told me that he puts a lot of thought into everything he says, so there would be no room to question or doubt him. He is a master of linguistics (among other things), and honed this skill of persuasion until it was as sharp as the edge of a blade. It is something I deeply respect, and wished that I could learn from him before his eventual passing.

Thankfully, he did not need to bring up the matter at all. He was promised, then and there, that Dracula’s Vessel would be delivered in secret by the next month, approximately. He gave the most grateful of praises to the Lord that night, deep in his secret sleeping quarters where only a single ray of moonlight shone through. But even in the darkness of his private room, he felt as though all had been illuminated.

“Futility of futilities,” says the Teacher, “futility of futilities! Everything is futile!”

Progress, had, unfortunately, slowed, in the months following that most joyous of days. To speak of breaking the Vessel was one thing, but to actually do it was another. Regardless of what attempts were made, the polished black surface of that eternal coffin remained as though untouched. Not even Universitas- at this point, known as the most powerful Union Glyph- had done anything.

And still, no progress had been made on conjuring with flesh and soul alone. Spirits were low. He recalled this specific protest: "Master Barlowe, you are asking us to create something from nothing. Do you understand its impossibility?” It seemed as though this was a power beyond mortal hands, and he wondered idly if he should admit the futility of this enormous task. No! Never! That brief doubt was yet another test of his faith.

A biyearly progress report was needed soon, within a few weeks, as was customary for the church’s proceedings, and Barlowe had nothing to show for it. The magic sealing Dracula away was too strong. And so, Barlowe, beside himself, set to spending all night studying within the grand library. He worked best on his own, uninterrupted by those less superior to himself, so he disallowed anyone from entering while he set into his work.

In a particularly shadowy corner of the library sat some forbidden tomes, written by an aforementioned Dark Priest who once ruled over the same church that Barlowe had grown up in. Indeed, it was Shaft, the alias he took on upon his disappearance to participate in the black mass, feeling too many limits over his dark abilities within the church (thereafter he had become a frightening tale for children in the time of Augustus’s youth). Shaft had left extensive journals and letters cataloguing the various methods that must be taken to revive the Dark Lord- perhaps not applicable to the prison in which He was kept, but Barlowe was at his wit’s end, and that seemed as good a lead as any. He found comfort in Shaft’s writings, as his beliefs and goals were similar to his own.

In creating this memoire, the master has allowed me to read the very journals that inspired his heart so, and I shall include an excerpt here:

July 7th, 1792-

Progress has been swift. Followers of Darkness have congregated in preparation for the celestial event in two months’ time, and their supplies have been most generous: prayer candles and gold talismans, and the blood of well-bred goats, and so on. Matters of the Black Mass have long been censored by the Church, which has been quite a hindrance- the tradition stays alive only through half-formed rumours and word of mouth. I am grateful for what I have, but it has been difficult to get all the details of the summoning ritual. Still, I have nailed it down to this:

Prepare a coffin, for the Lord to sleep, a vessel in which He will form. Anoint it with blood, and arrange the remains of the vampire Himself in an arcane summoning rune, to give Him back His body. Then, bring a virgin, and lay her before the coffin; you must slay her. The sacrifice of an innocent soul will sustain the Lord as he comes back to true form. (Innocence is key here: the virgin must not be tempered in shadows as we are. Virginity alone is not enough, nor is it specifically necessary, though the Count finds the taste preferable.)

With luck, the forge of Chaos shall burn again.

- Shaft

Yes, the offering of blood, of a virgin soul, would put it into motion: the Black Mass, the traditional resurrection of Dracula. Of course a power equivalent to His own would be what freed him! Despite how He had been contained and imprisoned most horribly, the methodology was the same. It would be more difficult than merely slaughtering a maiden, of course, but that was where the power of Glyph magic would come in. To focus all that chaos into such a purpose... Would not that just be like arranging the remains into a rune? Was not the Vessel His coffin? He would fight fire with fire. And, of course, the sacrifice... It would not be difficult to raise a child for that purpose. Diligent training from a young age would no doubt make them even more acclimated to the powers of this hypothetical rune, the ultimate Glyph, than his current arrangement of warriors. And it would be an opportunity to prove his obedience, like Abraham did, following the words of God to sacrifice his child. He was not doing them an unkindness; until the ritual he would provide the children with years of lodging, food, a family, and arcane knowledge. When the final day came, the chosen bearer would die with honor, which not many could say for themselves. No, this choice was not a “necessary evil”. It was purely good.

As one of his disciples, as we were called, I know firsthand. Trust me as I trusted him.

The true goal of Ecclesia was something that was quite necessary to hide from the children he would raise for the task, after all, it would be far too easy for a young child to slip the truth to a church official, or to resist what they did not understand. He would tell them half of it, seeing as that he is a kind man: that their efforts to ready themselves for Dominus would be for the wishes of all mankind. And, of course, to preserve that innocence was imperative, as was outlined in the ritual. He never told me of this initial plan until it was clear who would be chosen, shortly before the ritual, and that it was not me; if only I had been able to acclimate to the inscription and could have taken on the mantle of bearer! Maybe then things wouldn’t have gone so catastrophically wrong, and our Order would not now be in ruin. But alas, such things were not to be. I was not worthy to be the bearer, and was not afforded the honor of being its sacrifice.

I do not hate him for initially lying about the true nature of it, and I never could. I understand that such things must be done, and we foolish children would have been hesitant to resurrect the Lord if we knew. Barlowe’s choice was understandable, and necessary. It was important that we knew the glory this sacrifice would bring before we knew the cost. To die for one’s cause is most noble, after all; revolutionary in its finality. I was only enlightened to the truth after having proven my unflinching loyalty, and my trust in my master was so unwavering that I accepted it wholeheartedly.

But Dracula’s remains... They would be key to creating this ‘ultimate Glyph’, and he sent for his strongest warriors. The strewn bloodied remains of the Lord were scattered across the land, and he would need them retrieved as soon as possible to begin his work on the Glyph. And, of course, he had to name it, as the name of a Glyph is also a source of its power. He landed upon a name immediately, the name of God in Latin prayers, as its purpose was an extension of God’s will.

The Glyph that would free Dracula would be named Dominus, or “master”.

There was the issue of explaining his aim in the progress report, but he would give another half truth: Dracula’s power would break the seal. Fight fire with fire. He would not mention the sacrifice, or the source of these findings. Furthermore, he knew that the old stories of the remains’ curative properties, near miraculous, would make his plan seem more plausible; whatever consequences he would face for his duplicitousness after the resurrection would be worth the end goal- after all, the eternal paradise of heaven would be there at the end for him. He doubted that the mission to retrieve the remains would be completed before the report, but that was quite alright. His findings were met with positivity and very little questioning, and what had worried him before that night seemed inconsequential now. He was but a servant.

As research continued throughout the day, he spent each night sleepless, and attentively at the side of the Vessel. To it, he spoke of the day’s endless toils, as slow-moving as they were, and how with each rising of the sun, they grew ever closer to perpetuating the cycle. Sometimes, he tells me, he could hear Him whispering back, though the words were indecipherable. His dear Father, encouraging him.

The warriors returned hastily, with all five of His remains sealed carefully in jars: the needle-sharp Nail, the all-seeing Eye, the protection of the Rib, the hungerbound Tooth, and most importantly, the Lord’s very Heart. In addition to the parts of His body, Barlowe was also presented with His ring, set in silver and rubies. It adorned his finger with pride, and he sometimes rubbed the blood-colored stone in order to feel closer to His wisdom.

In the presence of those contained remains, he began drawing drafts for the Ultimate Glyph immediately, and found at once that concentrating the power into one alone would be too much for any mortal soul to handle and successfully use. Thus, he split it into three, a holy trinity of sorts: Ira, the Lord’s anger bright as purifying flames, Odium, that hatred against the darkness that defiled humanity, and Angor, the agony that would help them all to ascension. However, they would come to simply be known as Anger, Hatred and Agony, respectively. He drafted the sigils over and over again until they came to be perfect and thrummed with the power he embued; he repurposed the remains themselves to inscribe in old blood and flesh all over the pages of three dark spellbooks, and it would be within those tomes, the final form of Dominus, that his chosen bearer would be able to extract the power of Dracula Himself.

He could feel that darkness, that repurposed body, emanating from the leatherbound pages, and in the presence of the Vessel it proved what he had been searching for for so long: the runes were cast into their metaphysical Glyph forms- suitable for absorption, but now he needed to prepare their bearer. He carried the tomes up to his office. Something made him feel as though he should not let just any followers near the Dominus- not until he had chosen a sacrifice, of course. If it meant giving up their very minds to make room for Dominus’ power, so be it (and his later research would indeed confirm that this would be necessary).

And the matter of the sacrifice was a vital one! He would need to dedicate years to this training, and even before that, years to understanding what steps would need to be made to acclimate the child for the ritual- to arrange the remains along the rune, the inscription upon the soul.

No, he could not rest. He had so much work to do.

“When you make a vow to God, do not delay in fulfilling it, because He takes no pleasure in fools. Fulfill your vow.”

In this chapter is where mere retelling ends and personal experience begins. Barlowe specifically requested I incorporate my own experiences within the text, in order to paint a more accurate picture of Ecclesia's daily life. I hope I shall adequately portray how wonderful it was then.

Indeed! I, Lucila, was one of those orphans that our master had so kindly adopted, though this story is not about me. I will not speak at too much length about my experiences if they are irrelevant to the text, as Barlowe taught me to act with the utmost humility. Indeed, I am the most humble and virtuous of his many disciples. No wonder he trusted me to write his hagiography above all others!

By now Ecclesia had made more settlements around Europe, to continue in other locations; for the most part only his closest associates and his cherished students dwelled within the main cathedral. Some children were provided by their parents within the Order; some were found. The master did not simply pluck any random children from the local orphanage, as his priority was those who were magically gifted. Furthermore, as he is a kind and sympathetic man, he would only go through with the adoption should the children agree to what was expected of them within their new home- though he made certain to mention all the care and acceptance that would await them within their new family, and omitted certain details of the task ahead as was necessary. I do not remember my initial meeting with the master, as my old memories before my joining are only a burden that he encouraged me to leave behind. He tells me, though, with a paternal look in his eyes, that I seemed particularly miserable in that girls' orphanage, and took to his kind and gentle demeanour immediately. Indeed, family awaited me there, and I have never regretted my decision. I do perhaps wonder if his kindness towards us unfortunate children was in part motivated by his own tragic childhood. How gracious of him, to offer us that same kindness!

By the end of his recruitment efforts, he had brought under his wing twelve unfortunate and battered orphans, so like his younger self, and the twelfth of them is of particular importance to this tale. I remember when she first arrived, at the crack of dawn, and she was the most dishevelled, wretched little thing I had ever seen. She was around twelve and scarcely younger than I was, only by two years, but she looked so small and scrawny that I thought she was younger. Perhaps she had been starved, but the diet Ecclesia would provide so graciously would make her into a tall, well-muscled valkyrie over the years. Her hair was a black tangled rat's nest, so unlike my coiffed ginger ringlets, and her pale blue eyes were wide with amazement at the sight of the cathedral.

Myself and another child had snuck into the entrance hall, excitedly hiding behind the marble statues to watch the new arrival. At my side stood Albus, a tall, older boy with a slender, wiry frame that never quite left him, and he seemed especially curious about her. Our beloved Father frequently wrote letters when he was away, you see, so that we of the Order would not become anxious in his absence. He told the most wonderful of stories about his time away, and he had written in glowing terms about this strange girl: that she had the magical energies of a potential sorceress.

"I'm going to live here, sir?" The girl tugged on Barlowe's sleeve excitedly.

“Of course, and you shall learn everything I know. We’ll prepare for your Naming Ceremony posthaste, but for the time being, do not be afraid to make friends with your fellow students. Look, they’re just dying to meet you!” He pointed out where we were standing, and she immediately jumped in surprise to realize she had been watched.

“Wait! Wait, sir!” She called after Barlowe as he left to attend to his own affairs. “I still don’t know what the Naming Ceremony is...” But he was already gone.

Albus put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped again- evidently, he had snuck up on her. Was she really so unattentive? “It’s nothing to be afraid of. Everyone here gets a new name.”

“But why?”

“It means something. He says these names are sacred,” Albus shrugged. “Lucila, there, her name means ‘light’.” He pointed at me, and I waved politely. “And my name means bright, or brilliant. The master says it’s for my intellect.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad, then... What is your name? You haven’t said.”

“Ah, I apologize. Name's Albus. I guess we're brother and sister now, since the master told me we’ll be lodging together and all.” He grinned, and that seemed to reassure her. We disciples all slept in rooms of two, with a sort of unspoken buddy-system. My own roommate was a bit of a bore, a snotty young child named Gris. I never became as close to him as Albus did to Shanoa, and certainly never thought of him as a brother.

“My brother, huh... Albus.” She smiled back, a little awkwardly, but it seemed as though she was beginning to like the future that lay ahead of her. “I’ve never had a brother before! Or... Or a family, really.”

“Me neither!”

“If you’re quite finished with introductions, I have been told to show you around the cathedral,” I said, with my most authoritative tone, offering my white-gloved hand.

“Yes, Lucila... Your name is Lucila, right? Mine’s-”

“No. Your name is not important. You will receive a new one,” I corrected her.

“But for now-”

“No! You’re not allowed to tell me. We could get in trouble. Big trouble.” I shook my head and grasped her hand. “Come on. Breakfast is starting, and you look like you need it.”

“Oh, don’t scare her, Luci,” Albus protested. “She just needs time to get used to what it’s like here. It’s not so awful as she makes it sound,” he rubbed her shoulder again.

“What’s breakfast today?” she asked, following me and Albus down the halls to the dining hall.

“Porridge, like every day,” Albus griped.

“Oh, don’t complain. The cooks work hard to make sure we eat well,” I reminded him.

“Ah, you’re right. It can be all too easy to forget how fortunate we are,” he dipped his head in apology. “Not like when I was out on the streets, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I’d be glad to eat anything,” the girl said quietly, staring down at her hands. “There wasn’t a lot at the orphanage.” This seemed to hit a note of pathos in the boy, and he protectively clutched the hand that I was not holding. Like an interlocked daisy chain, we all gladly went to breakfast, and the new arrival ate eagerly. I continued onwards for the rest of the day, showing her the library, the kitchens, the archives, the laboratory, the house of worship, and so on.

“Where does that staircase go, Albus?” She asked him, pointing upward.

“That’s the forbidden room. We aren’t to enter. It’s dangerous. Master says so,” I interjected.

“What’s in there?” She pried further.

“The Vessel of Dracula’s soul. Didn’t he tell you? We’re going to learn how to use a magic spell to break it, so humanity can look to dawn-” Albus began, and I finished: “Without fearing the darkness.”

“Of course I remember,” she assured me.

“If all goes well in training, we might get to see it,” Albus continued. “We’re supposed to- how did he put it? To become Vessels for Dominus. A Vessel against a Vessel. Fire on fire.”

“I see...” she replied thoughtfully. “Where to next, Luci?”

“Lucila will do,” I said, hastily. We were comrades and colleagues, bound by loyalty to the Order, but she was still a stranger to me, and it felt odd for her to be acting as though we were close. I am aware she likely had no friends before me or Albus, but it still put me off. But I provided her answer: we would be going to the sleeping quarters, and Albus would show her their shared room; they would wait there until the Naming Ceremony would begin that evening, and all of Ecclesia would be in attendance. This worried me slightly; despite how easily she took to Albus and I, she seemed remarkably jumpy around adults, or at least any who weren’t Barlowe. I wonder sometimes if that had been a lasting effect of what she may have endured at the orphanage, but I find no value in speculating further.

Albus excitedly led her to their quarters, and as my contributions to her introduction were over, I stopped by the library again. By the time Barlowe had taken us in, he had hidden the books of dark knowledge, perhaps somewhere in his personal office, where not even the most high ranking of his followers dared to intrude. He was a kind, gentle man, but should you incur his wrath, you would be duly punished. I, however, was not pursuing any knowledge, but rather some indulgent frivolity. As a reward for my good behaviour as of late, Barlowe had added a lovely book about a girl and her pony to the Order's repertoire, clearly meant for children. The message was always clear- if we were obedient, all would benefit, as anyone could check the book out when they wished. Still, in my mind it was my special gift that Barlowe had purchased with me in mind, and I cherish the memory to this day.

Eventually, the bells rang with the hazy light of evening, calling all who heard them to the house of worship. The Ceremony was to begin!

We all gathered in the grand house of worship, sitting in the pews. Albus had selected a seat in the front row before any of the Order’s older members could claim it; the girl was anticipatively holding his gaze. I can only assume they had become fast friends in their time spent within the sleeping quarters. The girl was shivering though, looking like she wanted to shrink away while she stood before the whole of Ecclesia.

One of the priests reprimanded Albus for slouching, and then the process began, with Master Barlowe reading from the bible in a warm, resonant tone. Then after he had finished he announced: “It is the most joyous of days when another innocent soul has offered themselves to our noble cause. Yes, to-night we shall welcome her into our ranks with her new name and purpose, as an empty tome to fill with knowledge, and that new name shall represent-”

“But... I don’t see why I should have to do this. Isn’t my name nice enough already? My name is Agathe!” The young girl protested, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “I do not need a new one.”

“You cannot reject your name! It is forbidden!” one of the nuns hissed, sharply in her ear, and the girl flinched.

“You will forget your name, to represent forgetting your old life and embracing your new and nobler existence. You shall be named Shanoa, which in arcane scripts means ‘nothingness’. Do you want to know why, Shanoa?” His voice was warm, with a veneer of compassion that would surely get her to comply faster than the usual reprimanding. Barlowe told me that he knew from the start that she might be troublesome, and this had only confirmed it. Thus, he took a calmer approach with her to ensure her trust, while the others would be as stern as ever. If she could come to him when frightened or upset, she would learn to think of her leader highly- and thus, Ecclesia as a whole. He really was a genius, was he not? It almost worked perfectly. She followed his word dutifully, nearly to the end.

“I-I’m not nothing, am I, sir?” The first hints of fear- and thus, respect- had finally appeared. This, he told me, was a good sign.

“On the contrary, you are a blank slate, a vessel to be filled with knowledge and purpose. Do you understand? This is why I have given you this code name... It represents how far you will come.” He gave her a kind look, and extended a large hand out to her. “It’s my favourite holy name of ours, actually, so it’s an honor to receive it. Doesn’t it sound pretty?”

“Well, I... I suppose so, sir." Shanoa's mouth curled upwards in a smile, and that was when Barlowe knew he had got his hooks in. Even the most reluctant of followers could become loyal, with flattery or other means. He had learned this well during his time providing services in the church; how he had slowly made them all followers of Dracula.

“Shanoa! What a beautiful name,” Albus greeted her, once the whole ceremony had ended, and she immediately hugged him. I came to join them, eager to show her that this was a cause for celebration.

“There’s always a grand feast for dinner when a new arrival comes. Do you like roast hog?” I asked.

“I’ve never tried it,” Shanoa replied.

“Oh, we have all sorts of food on feast days! The master brings in all sorts of chiffon cakes and fresh vegetables from Oblivion Ridge and-” I began.

“I’m hungry already,” Albus said, decidedly. “Come along, follow me.” As one of the oldest of the disciples, he could sometimes act awfully authoritative about it. Shanoa was happy to, though, and I could tell then that they had been made inseparable within only the better part of the day. And perhaps I was even a little jealous of how her attention had been so enrapt with him, though I put the thought out of my mind. Envy was unbecoming and sinful.

We each gathered food and took them to our table, the one all the disciples shared; Shanoa’s plate was piled high with too much food for any one adult to eat, let alone a young girl. Barlowe had joined us at our table soon after Shanoa took her seat, and that was unprecedented. He gestured for us to make room for him, which we did, and he sat at the far end with a warm smile. “I trust you are enjoying your time here thus far?”

“Of course, sir!” She said excitedly, her mouth still full of food. Evidently, she did like roast hog.

“Close your mouth while you chew,” he reminded her gently, and she nodded and swallowed.

“In the orphanage, you told me there would be training. What sort of- I mean, when will that start?” She asked, swirling her fork through her mashed potatoes.

“Tomorrow morning. We scholars cannot waste a single day in sloth. We will start with basic spellcasting, and I shall lend you a spellbook with amateur-level Glyphs, as we do for all of our students. The goal is to eventually cast without the aid of the book. Do you understand?”

She nodded, dutifully.

“Casting spells isn’t very simple. It will probably take you months to be able to,” I said, in order to curb her enthusiasm. It would not do if she was disappointed by those all too common initial failures to conjure. “It took me forever to cast Luminatio without it flickering out.” Albus nodded seriously.

“Well, we shall see. Practice is the key to all skills, and Glyphs are no different,” he replied. How wise he was! “With due time, we shall enlighten the world from this age of darkness.”

Oddly, we never had another grand feast that wasn’t on a holy day. That was the last one. Barlowe was quick to explain to me, as he looked over my manuscript, that it was because there were no more disciples welcomed in after that, which I found satisfactory.

We hurried back to our dorms as the night fell, silver moonlight shining through the stained glass windows and giving each marble statue a heavenly glow. Shanoa was complaining of an upset stomach- no doubt the retribution for her gluttony- and everyone was quite full; as a result we all fell asleep as soon as we went to bed.

We rose early, like every morning, though Shanoa was still feeling the ill effects of the previous evening, and made the trip across the cathedral grounds and into the Training Hall. No one among us liked the Training Hall even on the best of days, and Albus was concerned greatly that Shanoa’s first day would be spent there: she was clearly under the weather, and would get hurt in that labyrinth of agility, nor had she even mastered Magnes yet, the Glyph necessary to avoid the swinging axes and pillars of flame.

Barlowe hurriedly explained: “I do not intend to have her clear the Hall today, nor any time soon. I merely wished for her to see the accomplishments that lay before her... What she will be capable of.”

She was fixed on the first row of swinging pendulum blades, eyes as wide as dinner-plates. “I’ll really be able to get through that?”

“A demonstration, if you please, Gaia,” the master clapped his hands, eager to show Shanoa how far her training had taken her. Gaia was the oldest of our ranks, on the precipice of adolescence, and she was a particularly strong warrior. With pride, Gaia strode forward to climb up the incredible tower that made up the Hall, and her agility served her well: she weaved through the pendulums and propelled herself from magnetic point to magnetic point; she leaped elegantly through columns of spouting flame, and finished with a careful dive through revolving spike traps. When she returned, she was completely untouched, though she was sweating with effort and exhaustion. To clear the Training Hall was hard work, and the first test of beginner’s studies. Even I had never cleared it at that point.

“This,” Barlowe said. “Is the pinnacle of performance. To be in perfect communion with your body is to be in communion with your soul. It may not seem as though it is linked to your magical abilities, but they are tied fast together, twins in every way. Only then will you be able to absorb Dominus and know its power; only then will you be able to grant mankind its greatest desire.”

Shanoa’s eyes were as wide as they were before, but with wonder rather than fear, and this, Barlowe tells me, is when he knew her training would be of great importance. He is sensitive to these sorts of things in a way most sorcerers are not; he noticed a sudden shift in the magical energy of the room as though some part of her had instinctively tried to shape it; he explained that this was the telltale sign of a great conjurer. He had noticed it in the orphanage, but it was even stronger in that moment. He patted her on the back gently, a subtle sign of encouragement.

“You don’t need to be strong. I can clear it too,” Albus said, a bit haughtily. “I can teleport. It’s easy.”

“You can do what?! Can I teleport too, master?” She tugged on Barlowe’s sleeve excitedly. “Teach me how to teleport. I demand it.”

“Now, now, Shanoa, not everyone can,” Barlowe chuckled. “Don’t be disappointed if you cannot master it, your skills may lie elsewhere. All of those skills are valuable, no matter what they may be.”

“Yes, sir,” she nodded, suddenly serious. “If it’s to save humanity, I’d do anything.”

“Good girl,” he ruffled her hair.

The first week or so continued like that, with us training as usual while Shanoa observed and, at Barlowe’s command, took extensive notes. I had suffered a nasty cut on my arm from my own attempt to clear the Hall that first morning, and the pain was particularly distracting; I was doing worse that Friday at conjuring Vol Luminatio (a more powerful version of my favourite light Glyph) than I was typically- not that I had yet mastered it at that point. I swore as it fizzled into tiny dim sparks in my fingers and nothing more, not the bright orb I so wished to create. It was a gorgeous morning out on the courtyard, so Barlowe had brought us out to train in the dew-strewn grass.

“Let me try,” Shanoa said, getting up from the stool the master had provided and haphazardly abandoning her dog-eared notebook.

“You wouldn’t be able to,” I warned her, but still I handed her my spellbook and pointed at the cross-like sigil that denoted Vol Luminatio. “It’s advanced, and you’ve never cast before, so it-”

She solemnly took the book and focused on the sigil, determination in her eyes. She held another hand in front of her, palm curled as if to hold something, and her fingers began to twitch. “Something’s happening, I think. A buildup.”

“That’s incredible!” Albus dropped his own training spellbook and ran to where we were standing in the courtyard. “I’ve never- I mean, it took me so long to even feel any mana from the tomes.”

“It’s still... building up,” Shanoa’s brow furrowed. “I should release it, right? How?”

By now, all eleven of us had gathered in a circle around her, and Barlowe cut through the crowd hurriedly. I didn’t know how to explain the act of casting- you just knew, instinctually, and you had to enter the trance state to truly give shape to that energy, but Shanoa did not have that instinct.

“Cast it! Cast it, Shanoa!” Gris called with encouragement.

“I don’t know how!” Her hand was flickering with that white-hot energy, and she looked around in a panic. I knew, myself, that letting the mana converge for too long could be a painful thing, but once it was in this state it must be cast.

As the searing pain reached an apex, her hand curled into a fist, and then the Glyph was cast; more than just Vol Luminatio, she had somehow called upon Luminare, the light Union Glyph. It was like a series of miniature explosions, orbs of light manifesting throughout the shadowed clearing. The energy was bursting, like blinding flame everywhere around me, and I collapsed as it all burned around me. When the radiance had concluded and I had come to, we all were laying there in pain, and Shanoa stood at the centre, shivering in horror at the destructive outburst of which she had been the source.

In retrospect, it should have been clear to us all that it was always going to be her that would bear Dominus. Her magic was that undiluted power that Barlowe had so craved, the power that could destroy anything in its wake. Hot, molten metal, and he would forge and carve her into the most unslakable and unyielding of blades. She could set the Dark Lord free once more upon His world.

Barlowe tells me he knew, and always did. We were always a backup plan.

Somehow I’m a bit disappointed, though we all found ways to contribute to our dear Order. That was more important than any glory.

“Get away! I’ll hurt you!” She flinched as Albus struggled up to his feet from where he was knelt. With shaking hands she placed the spellbook in front of me and backed as far as she could from it, before nearly tripping into Barlowe, who now stood behind her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It was an accident!” she apologized on instinct, looking at the circle around her for somewhere to run. “I could have killed someone,” She looked down at her hands. “I can’t do this, sir. I wasn’t able to-”

“It was really remarkable, actually,” Albus mused, while Barlowe looked on thoughtfully, not saying anything- the silence was somehow more frightening than a lecture or shout. Albus stood near enough to Shanoa, but didn’t get particularly close, though whether that was out of respect for her wishes or out of fear I could not say. “That was a Union Glyph, the most powerful kind. Your first Glyph?! I mean, it’s incredible!”

“You'd better learn how to control your mana," I said, snippily. I was not jealous of her latent power in any way, but the pain still ringing through my bones made it hard to be gracious. She sat out of the rest of the training, eyes as wide as the moon, still watching me as I practised (still not being able to cast Vol Luminatio, mind you), and as we headed towards lunch that day, I can still recall vividly the image of her clenching and unclenching her fist with a solemn stare, flinching when anyone got near her. As I could tell it was eating at her, I made sure to offer her some of my shortbread cookies that came with our meal, and Albus had the same idea. She barely touched her food, though.

For all Shanoa was left conflicted by the day’s events, Barlowe was quite proud of how things had transpired, and elated by the tremendous show of skill. He would meet with her posthaste, he decided, and he recounted the meeting that night with careful detail:

He crept up the stairs to the sleeping quarters as quietly as he could, and found them laying in bed: Shanoa was sound asleep, snug in her blankets as if carefully tucked in, and her face was pressed close to Albus’s chest. He was still wide awake, though, reading a book by a dim oil lamp. His constant insomnia was a bad habit, one Barlowe tells me he never overcame.

“I apologize for intruding,” Barlowe said.

“Of course, master,” Albus dipped his head respectfully, as if to bow. His voice was barely a whisper. “What brings you here?”

“I need to take Shanoa with me. I have to discuss something with her.”

“Is she in trouble? Can’t this wait until morning? She’s exhausted.” Albus’s arms protectively clutched his sleeping sister.

“Do not question me. An order is an order, Albus. Remember that,” Barlowe reprimanded him. “This is important. She’s coming with me.”

During the brief altercation, Shanoa’s pale blue eyes had opened, though she was still groggy with sleep. She yawned a bit, then turned to Albus, clearly shaken by something. “Albus, you’re alright...?”

“Of course I am. Why?”

She snuggled closer to his chest. “I think I was dreaming. My hands were around your throat, and you were choking, but every time I tried to pull them away you grasped them tighter and wouldn’t let me. You were... you were choking... And I could feel the mana again, in my hands... I tried to stop...” she muttered sleepily, and Albus took the opportunity to glare at the master. Barlowe felt compassion for her, as she was clearly distressed, and he knew that offering up her emotions to Dominus would be a kindness. No more fear or sadness, or confusion. Only purpose.

“It was only a nightmare, dear. Everyone gets those,” Albus comforted her as best he could.

“You’ll come to my office,” Barlowe said authoritatively and snatched her hand, lifting her out of bed despite Albus’s protests. “Follow.”

“It was an accident.” Shanoa stated again, after they had arrived at the top room of that spire in silence. “Please, sir.”

“I am aware it was an accident, and quite an interesting one. What Albus said was correct- casting a Union Glyph at this stage is unprecedented. You have the most raw magical ability within you by far, compared to my other students. Did you know that, Shanoa?”

“No, sir.” She shook her head.

“Well, aren’t you happy about it?”

“I don’t think so. I can’t control it. It just... I mean, I-”

“That’s what the training will help with. Have I told you about trance states?”

“No, sir.” She shook her head again.

“Well, there’s your problem. I’m not being a very good teacher, am I?”

She stared. If she answered negatively, that could get her reprimanded for her disrespect, but she was too nervous to risk disagreeing with him. Finally, she replied: “That’s a trick question, sir.”

“Good girl,” he commented. “Well, it’s simple, really. You must discipline yourself into being able to enter complete focus at will, and suppress everything: the outside world; your fears and woes and joys; even your memory. In that state, it will come naturally to shape and release the Glyph. Do you understand?”

“Not really, sir.”

“Well, you will in time. Lucila was the same way at first, though not nearly as dramatically. Her issue was that she could not build up enough mana. Maybe talk to her about it?” Barlowe kept his tone friendly, amicable, and that seemed to put her at ease.

“Yes, sir.” She stood there, awkwardly, unsure if she should leave.

“You may go now. Good-night, Shanoa.”

“Good-night, Master Barlowe.”

She turned to leave, and then he hurriedly interrupted: “If you have anything on your mind or cannot sleep, don’t hesitate to come visit me here. We can brew up some tea and discuss it. My office is always welcome to my most promising disciples. Not everyone gets that privilege, so don’t make them jealous.” In reality he had only ever offered this to Shanoa, though I understand why. She was almost guaranteed to be the bearer, and solidifying her loyalty and love of the Order was vital, so that she may embrace her training wholeheartedly and with new vigor- to further impress him at first, yes, but to shape a stronger bond with Ecclesia as a group. This small kindness was merely one piece of this process, he explains. Every action of his has a greater purpose, and oh, how I respect his genius!

“You think I’m... promising?” She could barely contain her giddy excitement. She had affection withheld from her for so long, it must have been so wonderful to receive it.

“Of course. You’re going to do great things, I’m certain of it,” he smiled, warmly, then sent her off to bed.

Things continued in that manner for a few months, with our training making slow but sure progress. Shanoa's magical abilities were already showing great improvement in her careful control; Albus had not been so lucky as he had an accident with his teleportation in the Training Hall, an arm lacerated by spikes leaving him so injured he had to be taken to the infirmary for a long while, which wasn't typical at all; for that entire week I stayed up worrying, and Shanoa even skipped meals to visit with him and stole books away from the library so he could read in bed (regrettably I never told an authority about this). Other than that, those months were quiet and unremarkable; however, a shakeup would come soon after Albus’s recovery: we were to get ready for three guests, and our lessons were briefly halted so that we could dust the whole cathedral. Indeed, Morris Baldwin intended to visit, and Barlowe gave us the news that we could expect to meet his son Hugh- and, additionally, his trusted apprentice Nathan. Excited chatter rippled through the dining hall as we all gossipped about the visit that morning. Barlowe had spoken in glowing terms of Baldwin, a colleague of his as you will recall from those earlier chapters. Albus in particular was ecstatic at the news, having poured over their research into DSS quite frequently.

“Think about it,” he said, excitedly. “If they’ve already created such portable conduits, I’m sure our researchers could put some effort into making something even greater. Think, the power of a spellbook but the size of one of their cards.”

“I don’t think I get it,” Shanoa said absentmindedly.

“Easier casting,” I explained before he could, eager to impress. “You don’t have to carry a heavy old book around all the time. It’s convenient.”

“Honestly, I’ve always sort of wanted... A magic gun. With Glyph bullets,” Albus said. “We could make that. Ah, I’m just so excited. I’ve been drawing up my own drafts for things that draw on DSS, I wonder if I could ask Mr. Baldwin about it!”

The three hunters arrived in their carriage that mid-morning, rather punctually, with Hugh Baldwin griping about the remote location. His father told him not to be rude, and he scowled; Nathan Graves, however, was immediately set upon by a small legion of excited children begging answers to their questions- myself included. This visit would not end happily, however.

While Albus scrawled in his personal journal at Nathan’s advice, Morris sat down with Barlowe for a discussion over a late brunch, which I overheard with my keen hearing:

“So, the children...?”

“What about them? They’re to become potential vessels for Dominus. We’ve been over this.”

“Mmhmm,” Morris took a loud sip from his coffee. “You’re training them, you’ve mentioned in letters. What sort of training?”

“The magical sort. Physical, too. They’re in top condition, you’ll find.”

“You said you’d show me their training regimen, yes?”

“Of course.”

I found this all very boring, but it was in retrospect a crucial detail. Something was going to shift that day, and Barlowe tells me he too found this a pivotal moment when we had nearly lost a great deal.

The disciples were all crowding around Nathan and Hugh, and I had gotten the chance to personally ask Hugh some questions and tell him about life in Ecclesia, but then something seemed to go quite wrong as Barlowe escorted Morris to the Training Hall to show him our regimen. Hugh whispered in his ear, and Morris’s eyes narrowed suddenly, but he did not immediately speak.

In the Training Hall, Gaia was to give a runthrough of her expert performance, as she cleared it at least once a day to keep up her athletic figure. Morris had not said a word since his son had whispered to him, frowning contemplatively.

Still, everything was well, until it wasn’t.

The usual climb up the tower began typically, weaving between the pendulums, avoiding the pits of spikes; her use of Magnes was as graceful as ever. However, in one of the last sections, when she had to jump from platform to platform while avoiding the flamethrowers, she unfortunately made a grave error. Even the most skilled of our warriors found the Hall a tremendous challenge, and Gaia was no different. Perhaps she just wasn’t as alert as she usually was, or made nervous by the onlookers, but that was simply her own failure: she tumbled from a platform, a leg burnt viciously by one of the flame-spouts enough to set her off balance and tumbling down the Hall’s great tower.

I shudder now to recall that scene of horror. I had long repressed my memories of that day till they were a vague blur, but my Father had prompted them to come into clarity once more.

She screamed as she fell, trying and failing to activate Magnes in time to suspend herself on one of the metal points, and there were audible snapping noises as she bounced off a few other platforms on the way down and eventually suspended herself with the Glyph, shaking in terror; Shanoa tried to somehow get up to where she had landed despite her own lack of experience, in a fruitless and poorly-conceived attempt to rescue her. Thankfully, she didn’t push further once it became a struggle. But the conclusion was clear: Gaia had failed, more catastrophically than any previous failed attempts, and whatever wounds she had suffered would put her in the infirmary longer than even Albus had been.

Not that it was any fault but her own poor performance, of course. This was an unfortunate accident with the worst possible timing.

“Ah. That is not good,” Barlowe muttered, while the rest of us looked on in numb horror. “Well. She knows what she volunteered to do. Typically she is able to-”

“I’ve seen enough!” Morris snapped. “I had my suspicions about your training, but this only confirms them. Come on, Graves. We’re leaving.” He stormed out of the Training Hall and onto the grounds, where Nathan and Hugh were waiting outside and discussing something with Albus, who had opted not to come watch- due to his previous experience with the Hall I can only be sympathetic to that choice.

“Do we really have to leave already, Master?” Nathan asked, confused, as Morris stormed into the courtyard. "We only just arrived, and the trip was so long."

“Father’s in one of his moods, I expect,” Hugh said, dryly.

“No, no, enough of that. We’re leaving. Come on, Hugh. I’ve seen enough of this, this... This machine! I cannot believe I ever- Well, my lord! We’re leaving!” he ranted, shaking with rage. “Child soldiers! I’ve seen what this upbringing can do and it’s nothing good. These children are in danger.”

“Ah,” Hugh muttered, with an odd expression. “Ah, I see.”

“Will you tell the church anything?” Nathan asked, his eyes flickering over to stare at Hugh with a sympathetic gaze. Perhaps this had touched a nerve.

“They’d never act on it,” Morris grimaced. "But I'll try. And I’m taking my research, too!"

“You cannot do that,” Barlowe said, his voice flat but reflective of calm rage.

“It was a kindness I afforded to you, and a kindness I can revoke, Augustus,” Morris glared back. “This whole business with the... The training of children! I don’t like it. Look how many of them are hurt, right now?”

“I’m alright, sir,” Albus contested, noticing the eyes on his bandaged arm. “Our master never hurt us intentionally. It’s merely the consequences of our own failures. Don’t worry for her. Our nurses are very talented.”

“What the hell...” Morris muttered, to no one but himself. Hugh stood closer to his father, and he turned to Nathan. “You heard the old man. Go get his books.”

“Right,” Nathan nodded.

“And what do you hope to accomplish with this? Humanity doomed to suffer yet again? There is a greater good here, no matter how much you unjustly believe I’m leading these lambs to the slaughter. Dominus... will not kill them,” he lied, carefully. This was not a malicious lie, oh, of course it could not be. There was so much at stake, and he needed to regain what was being lost. “The Vessel must be broken. Physical training aids the magical ability needed for the ritual. The ends justify the means, Baldwin,” Barlowe glowered. “Or would you forsake all of us just for that?”

“This discussion is over, Augustus.”

Upon Baldwin’s departure, Barlowe’s quiet composure snapped and he flew into a fury, demanding to know why we had ruined everything that was to come from the visit and cost us our valuable resources. Apparently someone among us had complained of poor treatment, which had been what set Baldwin off. No one admitted to it, but Albus received the brunt of it, to make an example of him for the rest of us. The message was clear. Regardless of his likely innocence, he faced the lecture without complaint, lest he face more. He had been trying to tell Barlowe something before he had been hurried to his punishment in front of the other disciples, but went silent during its duration, out of fear of more retribution.

“I wrote about their research in my journals! I took notes!” Albus finally sputtered his message after Barlowe’s lecturing had concluded and he was certain it was over. “Almost everything, too. You didn’t lose anything. Or much, at least.”

Barlowe went very quiet, realizing his mistake, then apologized and demanded the journals immediately, to be sent to the scribes to make copies (something I readily volunteered my contribution to). Albus complied, rushing to his room where he had carefully kept them, and then all was right again, though we were all still quite shaken by the clear view we had gotten of Gaia’s twisted, broken body above us in the Hall; that feeling would pass eventually as the master encouraged us to forget and move forward, and the memory became a hazy dream.

No, it seemed the most lasting effects of this event were on Barlowe himself: he was always a little different afterwards; a bit more controlling and less lenient on us. I understood why, of course. There was so much we could have lost. Baldwin had been a vital ally to us and the source of much of what had made up our library’s greatest knowledge. The Training Hall was henceforth off-limits for “reworking”, though we never knew what that reworking may have been, as we never went again- whatever had happened, he clearly cared enough to not wish a repeat incident, as no one had failed as horribly as Gaia had. No, now it was off-limits, apart from only the most advanced of students, deeply restricted.

Additionally, none of us saw Gaia again after she had been hurried to the nurses, and Barlowe forbade us to speak of her. It seemed he was getting more and more on edge following that visit. And so, we quickly forgot.

He told me, later, that he was frightened, that at any point they could have lost their possession of the Vessel and could have lost everything they had worked for; Morris’s outburst had been a wakeup call of sorts. So he needed to strengthen the group, so none of us would dare selfishly make such false claims about our upbringing ever again. It would be terrible of us to lie and say we were abused- we were not, at all! Lying is a sin. This effort was set in motion as soon as Barlowe announced we would have another Meeting of Loyalty, which had once been an infrequent get-together every follower in Ecclesia would participate in but would soon become an almost monthly ritual. Shanoa had never participated before.

“What is this meeting, exactly?” Shanoa asked me, once Barlowe had given us the news during breakfast.

“Ah, so it’s already been a short while since you arrived here, hasn’t it? It’s simply our way of declaring our loyalty and noble purpose.” I smiled at her reassuringly. She had nothing to fear, after all. “It makes me feel closer to God, and to my family here, when we are all praying together and vowing our undying allegiance.”

“I’m not as enthused about them as you are,” Albus groused. “They’re sooo boring. I could be spending that time on something more productive. I’m still trying to work on my idea, Glyph bullets, you know? For a man so dedicated to research, he spends a lot of that time on meaningless fluff.”

“It's not meaningless!” I protested, and rightfully so. “It’s important. We need the Lord to guide us, especially after what happened.” We were not to speak about Baldwin in much detail unless Barlowe spoke of him first. "He just wants us to feel better after that man betrayed us."

"Not that I don't respect his wishes, of course," Albus clarified hastily. "All geniuses are a bit eccentric."

“Well, I think it sounds alright,” the young girl leaned against his shoulder. “I’m a bit nervous, though. Can we sit together?” She looked at the both of us imploringly. Albus eagerly assured her that she could, and tightly grasped her hand.

We lined up together in the house of worship, and sat very closely together in one of the back rows, Shanoa in the centre between the two of us.

“We have gathered here today because a former ally has left us. He has turned away from what the Lord had ordained. But if the Lord told me to bark like a dog and run through those woods, I'd do it! Do you know why? Because He knows all things. His will is absolute!" Barlowe's fist shook with resolution. "And He speaks through me! Would you obey, if I told you what He has commanded?"

"Without hesitation, Master. Amen," his followers nodded, their voices shivering with that same conviction.

“Would you die for mankind? Would you ingest deadly nightshade and perish in slow agony? Would you be felled to the flaming sword of an angel, all to ensure the completion of humanity’s wish?” Barlowe roared, the energy within the tiny room nearly electric with excitement and resplendence. “Would you die for the Lord?!”

“Without hesitation, Master. Amen,” the disciples murmured in unison, hands folded together as though praying. Shanoa’s eyes darted around in terror, and she clutched my forearm and whispered: “I’m not going to die, am I, Lucila?” Clearly, the incident with Gaia had shaken her. But this questioning was concerning, wasn’t it? She should have been able to agree with whatever her leader wished of her.

“It’s only hypothetical,” I explained. “But if it’s necessary, you may need to. It is quite noble, so do not fear it.”

“What does hyper... hyperthetical mean?” She hissed in my ear, before Albus shushed her. “Be quiet. You don’t want to get in trouble with the master. He’ll punish you.”

"And if those church officials come by asking about what Baldwin said, what will you tell them?!"

Shanoa, surprisingly, was the first to pipe up from the crowd: "That Ecclesia does not mistreat us. The Order has given us everything we have."

"That's right, Shanoa," Barlowe nodded, and she sat down again. Secretly, she was beaming at his attention, already growing into quite the goody-two-shoes, much like myself, really.

As the ritual concluded that night, Shanoa had thankfully not made any more protests or comments, and we all headed to bed. I myself felt like my mind had been quite cleared of the accident I had witnessed, thanks to Barlowe’s careful guidance and kindness. Really, it did not matter who lived or died. We could heal our wounds with time, and every one of those wounds made us stronger. We would get stronger. We would break the Vessel. We would achieve our purpose. No matter the consequences.

This made me feel quite complete.

I hope this has left you, my dear reader, with as accurate a picture of our lovely childhoods. Barlowe was like a father to us, and though not all of us considered ourselves siblings like Albus and Shanoa had, we were still as close as could be.

I could not have asked for a better youth, really.

"All things are wearisome, more than one can describe; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear content with hearing."

Three years had passed in careful studies. After having passed our Intermediate Examinations, we were all given the opportunity to choose our role within Ecclesia. Albus chose the path of a Researcher, one who would create new Glyphs and study their properties. Most vitally, he would be allowed to study Dominus itself, which excited him greatly; it was a suitable role considering how much of a bookworm he could be. Shanoa had chosen to become one of our Warriors, much like Gaia before her, and I became a Scribe, tending to the archives and writing extensively about the progress we had made. Alas, our carefree childhood days spent together during our training were over, as our duties had been split, but the three of us were still inseparable, and the best of friends. We spent every meal sitting close together and discussing all manner of things, though lately, the master had been pulling Shanoa from the dining hall and into his office for their one-on-one Special Trainings.

The Special Trainings were a frequent series of meetings that had begun soon after she had turned fifteen and her likelihood of becoming the bearer had become undeniable to him, though he kept this judgment hidden from the others. I asked her about them once, and she said she could not speak of them for fear of reprimandation, as Barlowe insisted they be kept secret, but that she considered them quite a special privilege that he had afforded to her (I knew now that this was likely due to not wanting envy of her role among the other disciples, and he explained further that he wanted us to not believe we had a lesser chance of becoming the bearer, to still dedicate ourselves to our lessons, in case things with Shanoa fell through); Albus said they lasted the duration of the meal and Shanoa would often be waiting in their sleeping quarters by the time he returned from dinner (though sometimes she was away all night); I asked Barlowe and he was glad to elaborate: they spent this time helping Shanoa more readily enter the trance state and concentrate long enough for when she may be needed for Dominus, though what methods he used, I never knew. I am content not to, as I did not earn the same privilege- as you'll recall, my master knew soon after Shanoa's training began that she and Albus were most likely to be able to handle the Lord's power, after all; we other disciples turned to providing to Ecclesia's mission in other ways. It does pain me to admit that I envied her, though, as the only one ever selected for the Special Trainings. Oh, how I always wished I could have taken part! But the elevating experiences of the Meetings of Loyalty were far enough for me.

Albus, however, seemed to be growing quite envious.

“It’s just suspicious,” Albus’s eyes narrowed, as the two of us were eating lunch. By now, us disciples were not all sharing a table, but rather we had been given the tremendous gift of selecting our own seats in the dining hall. How kind Barlowe had been to give us such a privilege!

“What’s suspicious? He is only helping me to be at my best,” Shanoa replied.

“If anything, you need less training, not more. You’re exhausted all the time, and he’s having you skip dinner too frequently. It’s weird. What does he even have you do in there?”

“It’s related to Dominus... I can’t say any more than that. It’s important,” she said, evasively.

“What makes you need this training any more than the rest of us, then?” I asked. “Or has he chosen you as the bearer?”

“No, no, he just thought I needed some extra help. You know I’m poor at controlling my Glyphs, Lucila,” Shanoa shrugged.

“Too powerful. What a great problem to have,” I said, dryly, then realized I may have upset her: “You’ll only need a bit more practice, I think. You’re getting better at it. It must be nice to have our leader helping you personally...”

“He’s... a good teacher,” Shanoa said, stiffly, as though rehearsed.

Albus began to respond, but was suddenly (and rudely, according to him) interrupted by one of the other researchers.

“Come quickly. Research business, you know.”

“Yes, sir,” Albus nodded.

He would later reveal this secret business to us as we convened in the library to discuss the matter amongst ourselves: the Chief Researcher was dead. He was an older man named Claudius who had once been a part of Barlowe’s church and was a right-hand man in the earliest days of Ecclesia. In the days heading up to this, everyone knew his time was to come; he passed in his sleep. However, the more interesting part of this is that Ecclesia was to decide on a new Chief Researcher in his stead. Barlowe would, of course, make that decision, as he was the greatest authority in these matters. There were, quite frankly, many to choose from. Albus was perhaps the youngest and least experienced, but the master tells me that he was catching up to his compatriots at a rapid speed. He had the makings of a brilliant and strange mind, his peculiarities ushering him closer to the answers than any other. This would end up prematurely making the master’s decision for him, though many would be doubtful that a nineteen-year-old could hold the position adequately.

It was a calm mid-morning, sometime in the fall, and Shanoa had left sometime around dawn for her first trip outside the Order since she had first arrived here. Indeed, she was to be sent on a mission, something she had been quite enthused about. To keep up the appearance of an “anti-Dracula establishment” (and make sure our funding was secure), Barlowe frequently sent his followers out to take care of monster attacks. This was only delaying the inevitable destruction that was to come, after all, so he found no sorrow in it. The girl’s absence was making Albus quite touchy, though, or so Barlowe told me. He didn’t really talk to anyone while his sister was away, absorbing himself entirely in his studies. I asked if perhaps he had been consumed by worry in those times, and Barlowe told me not to speculate further, that it only could be jealousy of her vital role; I had asked this soon after Albus had left our ranks, so I understand the wish to not speak of him.

Regardless, on this morning, Albus had intruded on the master’s private office, and I do mean intrude, as he did not even care to knock. He was, apparently, visibly sleep deprived and frustrated, and Barlowe knew then that he had a difficult conversation ahead of him.

“Last night,” Albus said, his voice gravelly. “Last night, I was working with Dominus.”

Barlowe raised an eyebrow.

“You gave your permission! I did nothing unwise. I was observing its properties. I... It had the tell-tale signs of dark-attribute Glyphs.”

“Indeed. Go on.”

“Not only that, but I referenced from some of the textbooks about this sort of thing, and... The numbers were adding up. The reactions to- to stimuli, magical stimuli. They were exactly the same as the remains of Dracula Himself. Down to the last decimal point,” Albus gesticulated as he explained. “I don’t understand. If this is the power to destroy Dracula, then why is it His power alone? There’s nothing else it could be. Or did you not know...?”

“Are you suggesting I have decided poorly in my construction of Dominus?”

“Sir! I am not questioning you, and heaven forbid I ever do. I merely wish to know why I had not been trusted with this information prior. It would be most vital to know these properties before we begin our experiments, not after!” the boy demanded. “Surely you’ve heard of that swordsman whose mind was split in two when he tried to collect those remains. It could have been dangerous. We need the facts. All of the facts! What are you hiding...?”

“The rest of our Glyphs did nothing to the Vessel. Dracula’s remains, however, reacted in its presence, and I attempted to distil that power. Fire versus fire, you see,” Barlowe explained, finally. “You’ll recall from legends that the remains also have curative properties, to lift deep-seated curses.”

“Of course, sir. But why hide this?” Albus asked.

“I have only hidden it from my disciples, and no one else. Even the church knows. You see, it would be far too easy for a secret to slip- especially with Shanoa travelling abroad for missions now, and all- and those small-minded people in those villages outside of our dear Order or the church, well, if they heard about us using His remains in arcane rituals...! You can imagine they’d get the torches and pitchforks if they knew. Our research would go up in smoke... So I had to restrict this knowledge.”

“I... I see. Well, you should have at least told me when I became part of the research team! Good lord,” he hissed under his breath. “I just want to know why-”

“Calm, calm. You’re stressed. You’re not thinking clearly.” Barlowe grabbed his forearm. “I had my reasons, and this explosive reaction is only illustrative of why I made this decision.”

“I’m only being reasonable, sir!” Albus exclaimed. “It’s necessary knowledge for what we aim to do. You have no reason to hide. I trust you more than anyone.”

He knew then that if he did not end this conversation amicably, Albus would most certainly sow dissent within Ecclesia. The idea of dangerous secrets, of the dark powers of Dracula, could easily be misunderstood, and if he told Shanoa, Barlowe risked losing his brightest pupil’s steadfast trust. No, he needed leveraging power, to keep that secret and shut Albus up for a little bit; to regain that respect. He risked the end of the Order otherwise.

Thankfully, he had a very easy way to do so.

The captain chose his words to the mutinous carefully: “Do not think I am disappointed in you. Your intelligence is second to none; I’ve never had a researcher discover this before I told them. No one else had thought to test its properties in that way. I see... bright things ahead for you, Albus. You’ve been invaluable to progressing our Glyphs, especially with the creation of Agartha, perhaps our most efficient Glyph conduit. We’ve been closer to the end of our mission than ever, and why is that?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Because of you,” Barlowe said, and Albus’s tense posture visibly softened at the sound of that praise. “I was considering this already, but your... ‘independent discovery’, shall we say, has confirmed my decision. You shall be the new Chief Researcher.”

Albus immediately accepted this role graciously, and as a deep honor, but on the condition that he was not to reveal any of his findings beyond what Barlowe had allowed, lest he lose what he had been given. In believing he had gained more freedom and control over his work, he was actually on a much tighter leash. This was by design; the master’s intent was to keep him from figuring out the whole truth while also feeling like he was receiving special treatment and high standing. He showered him with frankly overwhelming praise, then sent him out on frequent busywork.

Some did complain that such a young boy had been chosen for such a role, but Barlowe was quick to shut that down. The Chief Researcher, at this point, was merely a puppet’s role at best- not that Albus ever knew that (though he would still be involved in vital research later on, as will be elaborated upon in the next chapter). His only complaint was that he had less time to spend with his sister, now that they had their own split responsibilities. What a good puppet he was...

My role was much more understated, tending to the archives, making copies, stocking the library, and so on; I did not ever complain of my toils, though, as each contribution was what made Ecclesia so strong. I was glad to simply and humbly be a part of it, and my work paid off when I was soon regarded as the disciple Barlowe would most readily trust with secret, forbidden knowledge. So, really, I had more authority than my colleagues in that respect.

We were getting closer and closer to the answer, to Dracula’s resurrection, which Barlowe took note of as monster sightings became more and more frequent in the woods surrounding us. The isolated location of Ecclesia was, by pure coincidence, adjacent to the large cliffside that Castlevania was sure to appear on; he could tell, now, while the werewolves and skeletons gathered each night expectantly on that distant cliffside for their nighttime revelry, a telltale sign of the next Coming.

The message was clear, and it was as though spoken by the Lord Himself: Steady your course. Fate shall lead you to the outcome you seek.

“It is the same for all: There is a common fate for the righteous and the wicked, for the good and the bad, for the clean and the unclean, for the one who sacrifices and the one who does not.”

Like I have said before, Shanoa was, from the start, most obviously the pick for the role of bearer. Her strength, with new control over her wild magic, had made her by far the most powerful of our Order’s warriors by the time she had turned eighteen. She was already decided upon so many years in advance. She was not ready. She would, however, be ready soon, and just in time for the sort of celestial alignment that would be necessary for the ritual, in two years’ time.

Things were falling into place, and though the Chief Researcher was initially accepted into his role with hesitance at best, he was finally allowed to work on his own projects, leading the effort to understand Dominus and make it suitable for absorption. And lead he did! With immense vigor, he dedicated himself to the whole of it. And, against all odds, he had made a discovery.

He delivered this discovery at lunch, gingerly taking his seat near Barlowe’s great chair. After gaining the role of Chief Researcher, he was bound by his role to sit at the table of great scholars, the highest honor, though he often complained that he could not spend his time with me or Shanoa.

“Well, you see, sir, it’s like this. Er... That is to say, I mean- Engraving. You want to engrave the soul for bodily conjuring. Ah... you know that already. You’ve always told me that the body and the soul are linked; magic and physicality are twins. Logically, to engrave the body is to engrave the soul. So if you were to draw sigils on the body that can summon such a wealth of power, then the one who bore the sigils could indeed bear and use the Dominus. Ink is impermanent, but if you could make the flesh-” Albus began, running his mouth like always.

“Of course! What a genius you are. I have a process in mind, actually, and some of your researchers have indeed created suitable runes for such a concept... I shall test it on Shanoa, as she is already showing great promise in her attempts to summon without a magical conduit, as you know.” Barlowe rubbed his chin, keeping his tone of voice even.

Of course, if Albus knew what sort of “process” Barlowe had planned, he would have put a stop to it at once, possibly even leaving the Order. He was far too sentimental, always speaking of the greater good while still forsaking humanity at every turn if it meant protecting Shanoa from brief amounts of pain. He had been this way since his youth, and I asked Barlowe if he regretted housing the two disciples in the same dormitory. He did not answer, only saying that a friendship among his children was a beautiful and dangerous thing.

“What sort of process, sir?” Albus asked, as predicted. “I don’t know of any. I don’t think it’s been done before. Ink could suffice, actually,” he muttered, even though he knew it wasn’t true. It would not be a true mark, not in the way Barlowe wanted it.

“She will be alright, never you worry; she’s the perfect specimen for the process. This knowledge is forbidden even to my closest associates. Even my favourite researcher.” He smiled, warmly.

“Yes, sir,” he acquiesced. “...I won’t question you further.”

The process would indeed be a physical rune, one upon her back and two upon her shoulders. However, the pain of it, the agony of it, would be the way to tie it to the soul: an emotional wound. It would be unpleasant, surely, to be hurt so viscerally by someone she trusted, and she would fear him; she might even hate him; she might go numb with acceptance during the inscription process. Any of these would be a mark upon her mind and soul; the same as that physical rune, and it would be enough to even last through the loss of her memory. The anger, hatred, and agony would allow her to use the three pieces of Dominus simultaneously- hence the three runes- and thus she would reunite the holy trinity. Any potential lack of compliance afterwards would also be washed away, as such emotions were needless.

He was not cruel about it. He explained that the creation of runes would be extremely painful, but necessary. Otherwise, she would have relinquished her claim as bearer, and the fate of the world would be uncertain, and it would be her fault (this was by all accounts true). Under these terms, she had agreed, and assured her master that she could never say no to him.

I am sure she meant her enthusiasm to humbly comply. She could have backed out at any time. She knew what was at stake.

The two of them, master and disciple, gathered in the forbidden room, where the seal loomed large and beckoning. He recounted the inscription and what occurred that moment, though in consideration he left out the details of how he performed the ritual, out of fear of its misuse.

“After you endure this, you shall become a weapon; a blade to banish all evil; capable of freeing the world from the dark shackles that hold it,” he said, solemnly, the gravity of this decision weighing upon his voice.

“I understand, sir,” she nodded with her own equal solemnity.

“You are to remain still while it happens, lest it impair your magical abilities. Do you hear me? Absolutely still. No matter how much it hurts.”

“Of course, sir. I learned in my training, didn’t I?”

“The trance state... Very astute. That will indeed ease it along. Repress the pain.”

“Thank you, sir. I will.”

As he explains it, Shanoa let the magical energy bubble up within like that day in her youth she had cast Luminare. However, the Special Trainings had paid off, and she was able to keep that volatile energy at bay; leashed and muzzled. It flowed like blood in every vein, and that was all she could focus on. The inscription itself was something like a brand or, indeed, a tattoo, though I doubt it was the same as any conventional methods, as magic too was necessary for the desired effect.

The pain of such a burden was incredible, they had known this from the very first. Once it had been completed, Shanoa snapped from her trance and collapsed on the ground, bleeding from the arcane engravings that now scarred her, carved into her skin; she was loudly weeping. The pain was temporary and irrelevant, though- this would afford her great power, more power than any before her. Only her flesh could be branded; only she would be a vessel for the Glyphs. Barlowe found no sorrow in this, even as she wailed in agony, begging for reprieve like a needful infant, hands balled into fists. He would soon, of course, take her to the infirmary to recover, but the magical runes needed to set into her; mutilate her flesh; become her newfound limbs. And so he waited a short while; Shanoa would endure. She knew how to suffer pain and had done it throughout her warriors’ training. She was dutiful and obedient. She was his perfect specimen, after all, the one to bring about the end-times and cleave the world of evil.

She was his blade; his Isaac bound. Albus was a setback; Shanoa was a revelation.

Indeed, she is the fourth and final piece: Dominus Hostia. When she would absorb the three pieces, all would be reunited into one, and that would be what allowed Dracula the strength to live once more. She, in her own way, would be a part of Him; it would be an honor to give her soul to become a part of the very Lord. That was the truest of heavens more than any afterlife we lesser mortals are afforded.

He could not revel in the success of the ritual for very long, however. The ornate blue door, decorated with intricate gold engravings, opened with a loud, panicked thud. It was Albus.

“Why must you always interrupt?” Barlowe quickly turned to sternly look at the interloper. It was becoming difficult to hold himself back from reprimanding him; this particular ceremony was a secret for good reason. Even his followers, even his trusted Chief Researcher, were not always understanding of what must be done for the good of mankind. They would react in horror to what they could not understand, as tragic as it is.

“I heard screaming. I wanted to make sure-” he paused suddenly, his eyes darting to the bleeding girl laying before the vessel. Those eyes went very wide with horror, and he rushed to her side. “What have you done to her?! You mean to kill her!” His voice shook with accusatory grief. He dared not touch the raw flesh, even as he crouched close to her and stroked her hair with quivering hands in a futile effort to comfort her, that precious thing.

"I've done no such thing," Barlowe maintained.

“Don’t... Don’t worry about me. I'll be alright,” Shanoa finally stammered, blinking away the tears as though ashamed of them. “It’s necessary for the greater good. I’m a blade now. I can break the vessel, once you finish your research. Isn’t that what we wanted...?”

“Did it have to be like this, sir?!” Albus turned his gaze back towards his master. “When you said you’d make her flesh suitable, I didn’t think you meant something like this!”

"Albus, please. The ends justify the means. You'd forsake hundreds of lives just because it hurt a bit to save them? That is most selfish of you."

The boy winced.

"I'm not," his voice quieted into something meeker, like a dog with its tail between its legs. "I'm not selfish, sir. I apologize."

“Take me to the infirmary...?” Shanoa asked, eyes squeezed shut in pain. “Please?”

“I think that will be fine now; the binding is complete. Albus, you take her. I have things to attend to.” Barlowe waved a hand.

Albus, not wanting to argue anymore, complied.

Shanoa’s recovery was long, and in that timeframe the scribes, with our brief training in tailoring, were to create a dress that would not irritate her sensitive runes. It was wonderfully kind of Barlowe to design such a dress with her in mind, as I could not imagine living with fabric chafing against them. Not all scholars would have made such a consideration for their students. Albus was attentive to the point of his studies’ neglect, always bringing her food from the kitchens despite the strict diet the nurses were keeping her on and checking on her health.

It would be worth everything, Shanoa assured him, on an occasion where I had come as well. He had brought an apple, among other fresh fruits that had been brought to the cathedral (always a joyous occasion), but she was pushing it away, trying to explain the importance that she recover as the nurses had instructed. Albus always seemed to avoid looking at the bandages wrapped around her torso and arms, wincing whenever he caught a glance. I had the sense that day that something was eating away at him, having witnessed the inscription.

During my writings, I asked Barlowe about this, and he indeed confirmed those old buried concerns: that Albus had considered the unforgivable. He had asked to leave.

“I’m through with this,” he said, once Barlowe had let him into the private office. He slouched over in the chair across the desk, hands twitching violently as though that movement was his only comfort. “You’re not honest with me. I don’t want to... contribute to this, anymore.”

“You’d really consider leaving when Shanoa is still recovering? I thought you cared for her like a sister.” Barlowe raised an eyebrow. He knew he would never really do it, but the empty threat was concerning.

“Of course I’d visit-” Albus protested. “I... I was actually planning to take her with me.”

“No! No. You either stay here or never see her again. You must know where your loyalties lie, and where hers do as well; she agreed to this. You wouldn’t betray us, would you? And if you should leave, you would have no home, no family to care for you. Where would you be without us?! Without Ecclesia!”

“Nowhere... I suppose,” he acquiesced. "But... This worries me, sir. I assumed no harm would come to her from my work, but magic always has a price, does it not? Especially Dominus, the power of Dracula Himself..."

"Indeed. The greatest power of all."

"I need to test Dominus for- well, you know, if there are side effects, I cannot allow- I can't let her get hurt." He blabbered, his mind racing to the most terrifying of possibilities. "If this poses further harm to my sister, she cannot be the bearer. As your advisor and trusted student, I want you to promise this to me."

It was time for the leash to tighten again. If he ran amok with his investigations, he ran the risk of discovering the whole of the truth, and yet again the curiosity that made him so brilliant was jeopardizing the great wishes of mankind. Oh, if he knew it all, he would raise hell.

"You act as though she's made of glass. She chose this duty on her own, Albus. How do you think it feels, to be treated like a fragile child when one’s grown into a strong young lady?"

"Did she say that to you?"

"She doesn't spend all her time with you, I'm sure you're aware..."

"No... She-"

"You baby her. Let her be independent, alright? She yearns for it, secretly. She’s ashamed to ask you, but it’s what she wishes." Barlowe, of course, had no idea if those were actually her feelings, but Albus would bow to anything he even thought she wished. It was awfully convenient. “Anything that happens here will be for the greater good, and the Lord’s plan. Do you understand?”

“Of course, sir,” Albus bowed his head in defeat.

“You may continue testing the Glyph, but I want you to remember my command is absolute, regardless of your personal feelings on the matter. Is that alright?” His voice softened a little, like how he usually talked to Shanoa. It seemed to put his students at ease, and Albus was no different. “And... You cannot leave because we’d miss you terribly. We love you.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, and the matter was over after that.

Despite the brief disagreement, things were looking up in a number of ways. Shanoa had reached the physical requirements that would be necessary for Dominus, only needing to be prepared for the magical performance, a training regimen that would begin very quickly. Once a week had passed, Barlowe made the request for her to be pulled from the infirmary as soon as possible.

“Are you sure I should begin this new training so quickly? It still hurts, sir. The scars-” A hand wandered up to her shoulder, and she flinched at the light touch. Her other hand clenched around the crisp white sheets that were nested around her waist.

“They are runes, Shanoa. Remember that. Do not call them scars. It is incorrect.”

“Right...”

“We are working on limited time. The lunar eclipse, the event where the line between the physical and magic blurs, will come in two years’ time, and I want to make absolutely sure you’ll be able to make the absorption by then. That is the optimal time for me to perform the ritual, and though the eclipse isn’t necessary, it’s an opportunity I want to take,” he explained. “When the moon runs red with blood, then you shall be invited to the forbidden room to become a Vessel in your own right.”

“And absorb Dominus,” she said, filled with renewed resolve. Indeed, her magical ability was only half of what made her such an excellent candidate to be the vessel. Her complacency was the other. “Well, everything I’ve been through would be for nothing if I didn’t. I cannot refuse you.”

“Good,” Barlowe nodded. “You’ve done well. I think some sweets are in order, now that you’re off the nurses’ diet, right? It’s only what you deserve for facing the pain so bravely.”

“That would be nice, sir.”

“I’ll tell the kitchens posthaste.”

Indeed, the pieces had fallen into place. Barlowe’s efforts would indeed bring the Lord’s plan to fruition, however, not all would go as he planned. Not at all! Albus’s constant questioning and prodding and “ethical dilemmas” would be the catalyst for the eventual defeat of our sacred Order as the eclipse neared...

But indeed, she was perfectly conditioned to play her role. Victory was almost certainly secure, and there was no reason for her to question her duties as he did. She had gone through with the hardest part already, after all. Her death was to be painless, so there was no guilt in imagining it.

Barlowe relished this. He found himself drawn to the forbidden room at night again, rather than sleeping in his private quarters as was usual for him. Did that dark power of His spark more brightly from within the Vessel, as though in approval?

I can only guess, and terribly miss that optimistic time.

“For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing. They have no further reward, because the memory of them is forgotten.”

And now, we reach the events that had transpired a few months ago. Recent history, and what caused the utter destruction of our holy Order from within. The night of the lunar eclipse was about a month away, and all measures had been taken. Shanoa would be ready. However...

Albus, during some nightly, sleep-deprived experiment with blood (as he had become convinced it would make Dominus safer for intake), had discovered the true toll of the Glyph, which on its own would not be quite so concerning (Barlowe had taught us carefully the meaning of sacrifice, after all), but his immediate defiance towards the Master’s choice did not bode well. Barlowe was stuck: cater to the demands of a petulant child, or risk having mutiny among his disciples should he share the knowledge. Thankfully, his quick thinking would be able to solve this issue- he sent Albus on a deliberately long mission abroad, and intended to host the final ritual in his absence. By the time he was to return, there would be nothing he could do: Shanoa would already be dead. Maybe he would mourn her, but the ascendance of humanity from that which tethered them to earth would surely justify it all, if he had any sense in his head despite the bullishness that had become characteristic of him as he had grown up.

As Albus left, the Master made a key decision, as the ritual soon approached: he called me to his office and told me everything. He trusted me above all others with this knowledge; he wanted a record of his accomplishments before the final judgment arrived. At first I was aghast- all this time, having been told we were to save humanity, we were working towards the revival of Dracula, and a dear friend of mine would be sacrificed to do it. But how many times had I sworn my loyalty to Barlowe- to Ecclesia's noble purpose? How many times had we all promised that we would die for progress, if necessary? I had meant it with every breath in my body; we had all meant it; Shanoa had meant it. There would be no grace in disavowing those promises. I trusted Barlowe above all others, and clearly he trusted me, to have given me this secret knowledge, the kind no other disciple was given the privilege of knowing. So I accepted what he told me in a heartbeat; the ends justify the means, and they always had. Shanoa had lived a good life, and the destiny that awaited her would ensure her crowning place on heaven's celestial circle. There would be no reason to mourn her death. Mankind would look to dawn, and the darkness would be there to hold them in His embrace. It was here I began writing, based carefully on Barlowe's guidance and my own experience. This was where the very tome in your hands had begun; my greatest work and dedication.

So of course I accepted this. He was my leader, and practically my father; he was my master.

Shanoa was to be carefully given food that would enhance her mana, and allowed more sleep than was typical for our Order’s schedule rather than being awoken sharply at six a.m. She did not know these were to be her last days, though we all had a sense of finality in that time. Perhaps it was the eclipse; perhaps it was the ceremony of the whole thing.

A ceremony that would not go uninterrupted.

It was a turbulent night for an eclipse, most definitely, a storm roiling outside like a boiling kettle. Lightning found glee in clashing down in showering sparks, and thunder struck an ominous beat like a war drum. Shanoa had come inside from a walk around the grounds as soon as the rain had begun and in the entrance hall- that same entrance hall we had first met- Albus waited, hidden in plain sight. He always did, wanting to scare her; she spotted him before that could come to fruition.

I was just outside the entrance hall when this happened, in one of the training rooms Barlowe used to summon monsters in to let us get a taste of real combat. I did not hear every bit of the conversation, but it went a bit like this: Albus asked how things were going back home, explaining that he had returned early; Shanoa explained that the ceremony for her absorption of Dominus was to begin that night. Albus had a sudden outburst, angry that Barlowe had gone back on his “promise”, and the bells in the high towers rung, calling Shanoa to her duty in the forbidden room.

Albus was left at the bottom of the staircase. Thunder crashed down around the cathedral once again, louder than ever, as though it was his own anger.

“HOW COULD HE?!”

His anguished wail chills me even now: the wail of a man with pure envy and spite in his heart. Having found that he was not to be the bearer, it nearly destroyed him there.

“Orders may be orders, Barlowe... But I'm holding you to your promise.”

I was not in the forbidden room during the ritual, but my master saw it fit to recount the events that transpired there very soon after, the great turning point in what would spell the end of our Order, and very nearly the failure to resurrect Dracula. I am glad he told me before he met his own end.

Shanoa entered the room with the solemnity demanded of her, the heavy door slamming behind her. She understood at least some of the great responsibility upon her- and of course, had she known the true price, she would have done it without hesitance. This I knew for certain, as I knew her well. In those days she had the steadfast heart of a martyr.

What could have led her astray?

“...This responsibility is yours alone, Shanoa. As you know, only you can become the bearer of Dominus. Every moment of your discipline has led you to this moment,” Barlowe explained, carefully. “Every pain you’ve ever bore.”

“Yes, sir,” she nodded.

“Even so, it will be nearly impossible for you to control its power. The purpose of this ritual is to make sure your body will adjust to Dominus completely.” He pointed at the runes on her shoulders. “Those will only take you so far... Don’t look so concerned, I will be handling all of this. You just have to do what you’re told, and it will go smoothly.”

“Yes, Sir. But when it's over, I-”

He told me that he saw a terrible spark of hesitance in her eyes. Had Albus told her what would happen? Had his earlier behaviour caused her to wonder? He could not allow this; not in these final moments before He would be revived.

This was technically the truth, thus he had no guilt in telling it: “That's right, Shanoa. You will be able to wield our most powerful Glyph... Dominus, which Ecclesia created as the ultimate weapon against Dracula’s Vessel.” It seemed to satiate her brief apprehension. As instructed, she stood before the Vessel, shaking horribly in its dark presence, as if it were beckoning her closer and closer.

“I'm proud of you, Shanoa. You will become our world's new saviour.” Barlowe gave her his warmest smile- after all, he wanted her final moments to only be the most wonderful of all. She must know how much we are thankful for her, for her sacrifice. This, too, would reassure her towards acting without fear- to using Dominus.

Finally, the tomes were cast, pages whirring as they floated into the air, and within Shanoa’s trance state she could see the sigils glistening on the air. Hatred, the blade, as she was; Anger, the dragon, Dracul; Agony, the weeping of the sinful. She, the sacrifice, needed only to stand, waiting, deep magic flickering through every inch of her and making her hair float as though she were underwater. She turned her back to the Glyphs, serenely, and accepted them; they began to converge on her, in her, through her, becoming her...

The door slammed open, a massive crashing noise echoing through the forbidden room, and the moment of delicate magical tension that had been building was instantly defused. Shanoa shrieked; everything dropped to the ground: the books, and even Shanoa herself, on her hands and knees before the Vessel and her eyes very wide.

The absorption had failed. Barlowe whirled around. “What’s going on?!”

The figure that greeted him confirmed all of Barlowe’s worst fears. The rogue, the rebellion, the fallen angel. Albus stood there, the tomes of Dominus now summoned at his side. His hand was in a claw-like configuration, as though beckoning the tomes to him.

Shanoa looked up at him, and there was not a bit of recognition in her blank expression. “You... Who... are...?”

Albus looked back at her, fury beginning to spark in his heart like a funeral pyre. He wanted this; to be her; to be the bearer. It drove him mad and would drive him madder still. That was why he took Dominus in that awful moment.

I could have stopped him! In my terror I was frozen, as he ascended the staircase to the forbidden room. The guilt destroys me even now. But my dear master has never blamed me, only comforted me as I wept. He is more gracious than any else.

Shanoa fainted before her traitorous brother could answer, the immense magical energy it took to absorb without the snap of its fruition was enough to knock her out cold. Albus glared at Barlowe, teeth bared like a furious wolf.

“What have you done...” It came out a worryingly calm whisper.

“What is the meaning of this!? Albus! You know how crucial the ritual is!” His own anger could shine just as brightly. Of course Albus would have gone down this path. Of course, he was the betrayer, the disobedient of his disciples.

“You lied to me.” His voice began to shake, his hands violently twitching.

“Albus-” He maintained his stern, disciplinary tone. It used to frighten the boy into obedience when he was young, to hear his warm, admirable mentor turn cold in an instant and know that a lashing was soon to follow.

It didn’t work now.

“I was to be the bearer. You promised me!” Albus shrieked like an anguished banshee.

“We each have a role! If you had followed orders, you might understand that. Above all else, Shanoa is the only one with the capacity for Dominus. You know that as well as I do. You’re wasting our time and everything we’ve worked for. Return the tomes to me.”

“I intended to overcome my weakness. What happened to working together?” He stepped backwards, refusing to yield.

“Perhaps we still can. Together, we will overcome this setback as well...” He extended a hand. “Give me the tomes, boy.”

“...It's too late for that.” Albus’s eyes wandered to where Shanoa lay unconscious, and shoved the books into a satchel at his hip. His eyes glistened with ardent resolve like hardened shards of sapphire.

“Tell me, Albus. What do you intend to do with Dominus?” Barlowe tried to maintain his cool authority.

“You think I’d be beholden to what you wish of it?! ...You said it yourself: each of us has a role. And, like a fine master, you've finally shown me what mine must be.” He grinned, a joyless thing. Cold amusement.

“Don't be stupid, Albus! What are you planning?”

“I will be taking Dominus with me. I’m leaving.”

“Be rational! Without that Glyph, our mission is a failure! You’d forsake everything just for this?!” His veneer of calm was gone. It was as if his heart was torn in two, seeing the ungrateful boy he had worked so hard to raise turn against him so willingly. “Give me the damn books, so help me God.”

“I have my own mission.” He pointed Agartha straight at him, and the master didn’t doubt for a moment that he would shoot to kill. However he did not, scattering a flurry of golden diamonds across the floor from the barrel of his gun. As Barlowe stepped forward to try and take the tomes or cast Fulgur, the flurry of bullets turned into massive spires of topaz spires of ice. He struggled against the crystals that bound him, but to no avail.

“You are my master no longer... Farewell, Barlowe,” his voice shivered with icy contempt. He turned and left, not even dignifying him by looking him in the eyes as he spoke.

The master wrestled free of the frigid prison of the Torpor Glyph, but by the time he shook the golden crystals off of him, Albus was long gone. Shanoa was still motionless, having been still as the Vessel itself since she had fainted.

For a brief, frightening moment, as he saw her crumpled there like something destroyed and lifeless, he thought he had killed the girl; broken her beyond usefulness. But consciousness returned to her, after those few minutes of agonizingly quiet, stale silence. He witnessed her deadened, empty eyes open; she had the eyes of a corpse, bereft of any light, but she was living- if this state could be considered as such. If she was malleable before, it was nothing compared to this. He realized then he had done no such thing, much like when he had engraved her with the runes. No, she was not broken.

He had fixed her.

She was taken to the infirmary, as it was imperative to lead her to believe this was an unforeseen consequence; that Albus had caused this loss deliberately, as Barlowe feared that the snake would use his previous closeness with her to lead her astray from her sacred purpose. The lie was quite necessary. I was to be sent in to visit her, and the thought thrilled me- to meet someone touched and shaped by the holy powers of Dracula! To look into those vacant eyes would be like staring upon those of a prophet or saint. Our saviour! I was glad for her, as I still considered her my friend at that time; however, I could not show it. I knew how to pretend, though, to be the ever-concerned bedside companion.

She did not remember me, upon my visit, but I cared not. I would forget all I knew if it meant a chance at the divine, elevated trance she was now in. She stared down, blankly, at her interlocked hands, placed on her lap where she sat up in her infirmary bed, not even looking up when I spoke to her. When she responded, it was in fragmented short acknowledgements. An "I see" or "Yes, ma'am", as though I wasn't merely two years her elder and once her close friend. It was as though everyone around her was an authority to obey, including myself. I had an awe and respect for that peculiar obsequity, though in reality it should have been me bowing to her- she was the one who had been chosen, after all. Even still, the feeling of authority was delightful. I wonder, now, if Barlowe felt like that all the time, with all his followers at his beck and call.

What Dominus had done to her was create a permanent version of the trance state necessary for casting, and thus induced the most pure connection between soul and body: a purely magical object, a conduit in and of herself. All else was suppressed: pain, memory, temptation... She had become merely a vessel, a dwelling, a messenger for the holy powers of Dominus, though the way Albus had stolen the tomes had delayed her inevitable sacrifice. But in the meantime, she was an angel on earth.

But, indeed... Someone would need to retrieve Dominus. Barlowe chose her for this mission, even in her current state, so that she may in combat regain the abilities that she had forgotten, and for the secret reasoning that Albus may be more easily swayed by the demands of his sister. He wouldn’t hand the tomes back to just anyone, and certainly not Barlowe, he had made that clear... But Shanoa? He would have done anything. And the blade, without her worldly attachments, would have no issues taking whatever measures were necessary to retrieve them. She was pliable, easy to command and eager to listen, as it was all she had to direct herself. As though she were dependent on Barlowe to even think, with the new limitations on her emotional capacity. It was only strategic.

The theft was a crisis, but Shanoa was perfectly suited to handle it. She had lived up to that name Barlowe had bestowed on her long ago. She was nothing, and everything.

A few weeks passed by, Shanoa slowly becoming acclimated to Glyph absorption and combat via her runes once more to the point of nearly completely regaining her skill. Before she left, Barlowe demonstrated his summoning of living dead, as the first combat trial for the new, real Shanoa. Deftly she slayed the skeletons with Confodere, the rapier Glyph, despite the disadvantage of slashing-type weapons against hardened bone. And that was proof enough- it was time for her mission. I was there when Barlowe wished her well, as she would likely take a long time to track down the elusive agent with his three week head start. I, too, gave her my farewells.

“Good work, Shanoa. I expected nothing less. Exemplary,” Barlowe said, bowing his head as she dismissed the ephemeral blade. “The way you handle your Glyphs is natural- as though you hadn’t forgotten anything at all.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, no intonation in her voice. So unlike how she had once vyed for his praise, now it all meant nothing. The humility is something I can only yearn for.

“And now, your mission must begin at once- the purpose of this abridged training regiment. Recover the supreme Glyph, Dominus. My pupil has it: Albus is his name,” he explained further, holding his gaze steadily into her hazy eyes.

“Albus,” she repeated slowly, as though tasting the unfamiliarity of the name on her tongue. Two meaningless syllables. Oh, if she knew who that name belonged to... If she could hate him as I do...

“Does that name stir your memory, by chance?” I saw the falter in his eyes, the sudden worry that her oblivion was not complete. It was a justified fear, as the sacred ceremony had been interrupted. If her state of emptiness was not complete, she could not be a vessel. No room within, you see, as Dominus seeks to inhabit every darkened corner of the mind that meaningless thought usually takes hold within. She must be entirely empty.

“No, sir.”

“Your feelings, then? You knew of him, before,” he prompted further.

“I know nothing of him now.”

“Know this: it's he who robbed your memories blind. He cost you that, and cost mankind its wish. Its only hope, and you must take it back!” His voice shook with complete conviction. The hatred behind his words was indeed genuine. Without Dracula’s revival, the hope for the ascendance of humanity was a dying wish.

“I saw a man at the ritual, before I... fell.” Shanoa’s eyes closed in effort, as though it was difficult for her to even remember something from less than a month ago. “I asked who he was and everything went dark. That’s as far back as I can remember.”

“That was Albus,” I said, placing a hand on her arm sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Shanoa.”

“So this is all his doing. But why? If Dominus can do such things, why take it?”

“He coveted your power, and your fate. But Dominus was yours alone to bear. Had I explained, perhaps you'd still be whole,” the master said with a slightly exaggerated sniffle. “He is evil. He wanted the power to himself to feed his ego, no matter the cost. Even when it meant such awful things happening to you! He once thought of you as a sister. I never thought he’d betray you!”

She didn’t respond. There was only silence, where anguish and hate would have perhaps found a home. I admired her, no way to fall to wrath or envy. She was a being above sin!

“I imagine it would be hard, to face the man who stole your soul,” I said, prodding a bit. I, of course, knew the truth, but it was an interesting question nonetheless.

“I don’t have any particular thoughts on it,” Shanoa replied, straightfaced as ever. We hadn’t really gotten a chance to talk after that day, so the emotionless state of her was still unfamiliar to me. “The master says that tracking him down will be a just retribution. I get the impression that he has... wronged me.”

“He has wronged everyone. Without Dominus, the future is grim. Dracula, you know,” I said, a half truth, and I caught an approving glance from Barlowe. “Whatever despair you are spared from, I must suffer, and I have suffered terribly to know you don’t remember me.”

“Were we allies?”

“Friends, Shanoa.”

“...I don’t think I know your name.” She looked away.

“Lucila. Don’t worry over it.”

“Worry...?”

“...You’re leaving soon, and there’s no time to be wasted. We can save the pleasantries for when you’ve retrieved the tomes of Dominus,” I explained. Part of me sort of hoped I wouldn’t have to look at her again. But why? I was glad this had happened to her, that she had become this ascendant thing. But she unsettled me so! Her eyes were a stranger’s; the eyes of a dead woman.

The master responded with furious passion: “Yes, no time now for wishes or regrets! With Dominus, Shanoa, we can save the world- from nothing less than Dracula himself! Retrieve it, and we burn him back to dust. There's nothing else that's ever mattered more.”

“It shall be done, sir.”

“You truly are a blessing on us all. And we have one advantage: Dominus cannot be used by ordinary men. Not even Albus; it requires you. No flesh but yours can ever host a Glyph. You see now why I chose you for this task.”

“I do, sir.”

I wandered away a bit, as the mission briefing was not my own and there was no point to further distracting the weapon. But I paid close attention to the conversation, now that I had my vital duty to document the history of Ecclesia. This moment could potentially be important: either the mission that would turn our fates around, or doom us with her potential failure.

He continued: “However... Albus has a keen and cunning mind, trained in magical science. With time, he may yet find another way. So find him first, before his trail grows cold. Some of our scouts have spotted him around an abandoned monastery. It is possible he’s taken up his own headquarters there, but please take caution. Places like these are often haunted with hostile creatures. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” She turned away to walk towards the staircase down to the entrance hall, as certain as she could manage. She would move forward, and that would be her existence hereinafter. But before she could descend, Barlowe interrupted.

“Shanoa, bring him back unharmed, unless... Unless he proves too stubborn.”

I understood the message perfectly: if necessary, kill. Shanoa was a creature without hesitance, so there would be no guilt if it came to that. The loss of her feelings was quite a blessing to her. Despite my feelings of disease, oh how I envied her role. Why, I am nearly as terrible as Albus, I must admit. But had I taken the mantle, my envy would have been washed away.

Shanoa agreed to those terms, and left curtly.

“Our hopes go with you... All the world's, and mine,” I whispered to her as she left.

“This is an evil in everything that is done under the sun: There is one fate for everyone. Furthermore, the hearts of men are full of evil and madness while they are alive, and afterward they join the dead."

Shanoa’s mission was like a particularly infuriating game of cat and mouse. Whatever lead she took, Albus narrowly avoided capture, and his erratic behaviour left us with more questions than answers. Shanoa would approach as diplomatically as she could manage, he would speak in riddles, and then leave before she could take action.

There were small victories, though. Despite how it seemed to run counter to his initial plan, Albus had actually given Shanoa two of the pieces of Dominus. Barlowe excitedly asked her if she had managed to talk him into it diplomatically; she had not. It was merely his whim. But thankfully, Anger and Hatred still lay with us, absorbed into Shanoa’s body and safe. Agony, on the other hand, blindsided us.

She returned for her routine report of her mission’s progression with a grave expression- well, more grave than was typical, at least. What she described to Barlowe was horrifying: Albus, despite his seeming unsuitability, had found a way to absorb Agony on his own- without runes. It was, however, disastrous, and he seemed to go mad, acting as though possessed by the devil Himself. He tore out his hair and growled in aggression, and teleported away in a panic.

Indeed, the dark powers of Dominus could corrupt the mind. Without the necessary ritual, the making of a vessel left a vulnerable, empty space for something to inhabit. That is what he never understood: for all his careful scientific planning, he did not put enough stock into the spirituality of magic, and now the devil owned his soul.

This was, of course, very upsetting news. Barlowe did not hesitate to give the order to execute him, but, he tells me, in that moment he thought he might break. Albus, despite being a traitor to our cause, was once like a child to him, and at the very least a treasured student. He seemed to even blink away tears when he said to me (and this expression of his endless goodness and virtue shall stay with me forevermore)- “I had hoped I might save him from damnation.”

No, he did not want for Albus to die. But there was no choice.

Shanoa would free him of his misery.

She killed him. I don’t know how and I don’t particularly care; she was a living switchblade and could have done it any number of ways. The snake, crushed to death beneath her heel. It was what he deserved. He wrote his own epitaph when he left us.

Now, after the execution, we arrive at that joyous day; that awful day: when Shanoa returned from her mission victorious. Barlowe hurried her into the forbidden room. All three pieces of the Lord were bound to herself already. She need only direct that power, and finally martyr herself for God. The culmination of years of careful study was within our reach. Anticipatively, I waited outside the door, even though it was terribly naughty of me. To even hear just a small bit of our Lord’s resurrection would surely set my soul alight with passion! But what I heard instead changed my life forever.

“It’s done, sir. I’ve retrieved Dominus,” she said, voice shimmering with some unfamiliar darkness. Not feeling, but something approximating it.

“And Albus? Did he yield, or did he...” The master trailed off euphemistically.

Silence.

“Unfortunate... but it cannot be helped. He wanted just the same as both of us. Perhaps he simply wanted it too much. But still, there is a way to honor him. Use Dominus, and see the mission through. Our good Albus would have wanted it that way, no?”

Silence, again, and I could have sworn there was a spark of contempt on the air, like an angry ghost had wandered into our hallowed halls. It was something protective and furious.

“Why are you hesitating...? Take all three pieces; bind them to yourself. Upon the vessel, cast the Union Glyph. And so, the world's greatest hope will rise! Ecclesia's wish... The wish of all mankind. Now go, Shanoa! You will be the one. Our world's saviour...”

“I will not.”

“Are you frightened? You know I’m here for you, dear. All you have to do is cast the Glyph-”

“No!” Her voice was firm with defiance. “Don’t say another word to me.”

“What, second thoughts? You've fought so hard for this...”

There was a pause, and a shift in air as she spoke: “I promised Albus. I'm never using Dominus.” Was she summoning some magic within her? Was his very spirit the presence I detected? It clung to her like a haunting, as though tethered, and I shivered in fear for my life. His vengeful ghost must have corrupted her, possessed her! That demon! What reason had she to forsake humanity?

“You promised him? He must have lied to you...”

“You would know quite a bit about lies,” she retorted, with a sharpness beyond what she should have been capable of.

“Shanoa, what is this? What do you mean?” The master tried to maintain his steady tone even as he realized that the weapon had come by knowledge that was forbidden to her. Our organization was in terrible jeopardy, and I prayed that he would handle this altercation with his usual grace. “He’s put lies in your head. I’m sure you must be terribly confused.”

“Albus didn't seal my emotions at all. It was you. You used them as a sacrifice to Dominus!”

Her accusation rang in clear echoes through the room.

Of course it was the truth. But why should she question it? Why should she disobey? Barlowe had provided everything to her. Taking something so unsubstantial away was nothing in comparison to his endless kindness. She was ungrateful, terribly ungrateful. Nothing like me. I should have been her! I would have been such a willing sacrifice. It was in that moment I began to hate her more than anything. How dare she?!

“R-Ridiculous! I've never heard such-” Barlowe protested, but it was becoming clear that lying further would not dissolve the situation.

“You also lied to Albus. You sent him on a fool's errand, and tried to hold the ritual in his absence.”

He didn’t dignify her with a response. She knew Albus was evil, did she not? Why would that matter?

“...And you neglected to mention that using Dominus would kill me. Would you care to explain that, ‘master’?”

It was curious. I didn’t think she was even capable of sarcasm.

“Shanoa, if you ever trusted me, then hear me: mankind needs you... Needs your life.”

He held his arms aloft, as though summoning a spell; I knew this much from the way the forbidden room turned into a magical vertex. I had become quite attuned to the matters of mana, and it was rising like a pot boiling over. A battle was sure to commence.

Shanoa backed away. Barlowe stepped forward.

“You carry such a burden, my young girl... To give your life that Man might live his dreams... Do you not see how wonderful that is?”

"You're mad. You’re mad!" Shanoa repeated. "That Vessel must have corrupted your mind. You're mad!"

“Now, Albus... That boy had the right idea. I did often say he was a genius... He found a way to take in Dominus, and I shall put his research to good use. You see, girl, we don't need you anymore. If I can replicate his findings, my flesh can host the Glyph as well as yours! And since you're so unwilling to comply... I'll rip the Glyph straight off your bloody corpse!” His voice turned to a roar. I understood his seething fury, and still understand it now. I carry it with me every night, when the creatures of darkness are close to the earth and the moon is waxing.

The weapon maintained her awful resolve: “I'm not ready to die, Barlowe. You still owe me answers.”

“Poor fool; if I could only make you see. Now die, and yield Dominus to me!” His was the voice of discipline, the growl of a warning before a particularly harsh punishment. She would get what her disobedience had earned her.

I did not see the fight firsthand, of course, as the locked door blocked any visuals; I have created a reconstruction of how it may have played out based on what I overheard.

Shanoa landed the first blow, with some summoned weapon. There was a sound of blood spilling on the floor, a grunt, then the unmistakable magical quiver of teleportation. Something was cast- it could have been any of Barlowe’s Glyphs, and then I heard metal heels clicking against the marble floor as she ran to dodge it.

“Resist no further, girl!” Barlowe snarled, electricity crackling in the pages of his magical tomes. He laughed, the air torn apart with his high pitched peals, and with that I held hope that he was maintaining the advantage. She was our strongest warrior now, stronger than any other in Ecclesia, as she had been designed to be. No one had expected her disobedience, which could be disastrous. But Barlowe could still win.

I had to hope.

She grunted in pain, having taken the brunt of the electrical attack, then rose to her feet again. “Luminare!” There was an explosion of light like the one on that first day of training, that seeped through even the heavy locked door; I heard the sound of Barlowe being knocked to the floor, and heavy footsteps- trying to keep her distance? It was a futile effort. His ranged attacks would reach her regardless. Stupid.

“Glaciēs!” he boomed, and I recognized one of his signature spells. Ice frosted across the floor and Shanoa was caught in its grasp, the frigid prison covering every inch of her body with no escape. Of course, the trap was only one half of an attack, and the familiar sound of sparkling electricity made it clear that thunder was soon to crash down upon her as soon as the attack was charged.

“Amateur,” Barlowe hissed.

I smiled to myself. It was impossible to escape from Glaciēs, the more advanced form of Torpor.

There was a shriek, the sound of shattering ice. The boom of thunder shook the whole cathedral to its foundations. The weapon hurled an orb of Vol Luminatio as she jumped out of the way of Barlowe’s next attack, a volley of fireballs. She leapt with her sword, but still he hovered out of reach, tauntingly shifting his astral position as she attempted to land her blows. There was then a convergence, light merging with her blade into a thin, holy sword- a Union I had seen her cast once. The hit must have landed, the length of the slashing sword slicing upwards. I heard an awful squelch of torn flesh and viscera, and cringed at the thought of him hurt.

It was at this point I tried desperately to open the heavy doors, but to no avail. If only I could have! I may not have been the strongest of His sorceresses, but surely Shanoa would have a more difficult time against both of us. But he had locked the door through magic, no doubt to prevent the weapon from running from her destiny. But she was killing him! I felt awfully sick.

The battle continued, long and arduous- Barlowe had surely attempted Glaciēs a few more times, I could see the frost creeping past the door. Then in a rush of heat, so cruel the metal door became too hot to place my hand upon, it all melted in the fires of Ustio. There was another slice of the holy sword and a splatter of blood. It was like an awful storm, a hurricane, trapped inside that room. It was then I realized I may not be safe from the blade. When she had finished with him, who would be next? She was a murderer. She had killed Albus, too, and now she was to kill again. She was trained to kill. Would she shed my blood just to continue that purpose? Everyone in the world would want to pursue theirs, like the Belmont once did. That I am sure of.

But I could not run. My duty to my master took precedent. I was to chronicle his life, and if I was not there to remember his last stand, who would be? I could not abandon this important task he had given me.

That was my purpose: remembrance. Unlike her, who had no right to memory. I would remain steadfast to the end, while she was the awful deserter.

Perhaps she had moved to attack him again while still recovering from the slash wound, I cannot say. But he responded with this: "Damn you for giving me trouble. How dare you?!" His voice shuddered with heartbroken rage. There was a loud thud and a pained whimper. A heavy blow from his fist, possibly, though I didn’t see. "You've even forgotten who raised you... You... You stupid disciple!" Another thud, then a loud clatter of the weapon falling to the ground, armor clashing against the polished marble floors.

There was a grunt of protest, an attempt to scramble to her feet, then another punch. "Do you hear me?! You're an imbecile. You're braindead! You're so damn selfish, even knowing what your sacrifice would accomplish. Stupid girl! After everything we've given to you! You make me nauseous!"

"I don't want to die," the weapon spluttered, spitting up blood. "You lied. You lied!"

"Shanoa, listen to me," he spoke calmly, and I could clearly hear sounds of her trying to wrangle from his grasp. "There is no meaning to your life that I have not given you. What purpose do you have to-"

"Don't touch me."

"You have no right to disobey! What reason do you have to perpetuate your existence? Merely a dead man's word!"

"He- He was my brother! You used me- You murdered him!"

"You murdered him, Shanoa, and quite willingly. Selfish brat! You're barely alive. You're barely a person. What point does your hollow, futile life have? If you die, you'll be more than just a broken, witless mind. You'll be a savior. If I have to take the Glyph myself-"

“No!” There was a sudden chill that shivered through the air, unfamiliar but completely unmistakable. A violet-colored glow flickered through the tiny cracks of the heavy bejewelled door, and it was like the drafty air of the cathedral was throbbing around my head. Barlowe stumbled backwards, afraid to even touch her now that the energy was reverberating around her. It was awful; it was dark, corrupting, it was agony.

It was Dominus Agony.

The most potent of the three pieces of the Glyph. The most horrible pain to wrack your body, but a channel of untold power. She’d suffer that pain just to defeat the man who gave her everything, and yet refuse to save humankind? I shudder to imagine such evil irrationality.

"I spite you to my dying breath!" she snarled, a voice that seemed to carry Albus's blasphemous rage. There was a loud crash of the thunderous Acerbatus, the angry bullet of Agartha. Had she taken on the traitor's Glyph? How fitting, then, that this would be what ended the fight- the powerful orb of golden light was followed by a pained scream, one that surely tore my heart asunder.

The student had defeated the master.

Collapsing on the floor, he let out another yell, one of lament, heartbroken that she would have betrayed him right before she was to finally perform her duty; betrayed him just as Albus had months prior. She was not a loyal follower, not as loyal as I- as soon as she knew the true ambitions of Ecclesia, finally offered the truth, she turned away from it. She killed him. I heard it, though his death was slow. He was bleeding out, and he crawled desperately to the Vessel to offer his last devotions. Pious to his last moment... It brings me to tears even now.

All hope was lost to this raven-haired traitor, who renounced all that he had so kindly given to her for whatever that snake Albus had put in her head.

"I don't understand. The user of Dominus is destined to die. Why would you want such a power?"

“Because without Dominus, I'll never destroy that infernal seal,” he spluttered.

“...Seal? You told me that was the Vessel of Dracula's soul.”

For whatever reason, in that moment he decided that the truth will out. Perhaps it was too undeniable. Perhaps it was because he knew he was dying, still bleeding out from the gashes left in his stomach. Regardless, he spoke it:

“Of course! Ecclesia's mission is to realize the singular wish of all mankind: the resurrection of our lord, Count Dracula!”

“Mankind wishes for no such thing,” she insisted. If she had her memories still, would she have kept her trust in her father? Would she have understood his reasoning? I get caught up on the what if’s when I consider this night, I must admit.

“Dracula's power comes from the darkness in people's hearts--our hearts. Ask yourself then, why does he continue to return, regardless of defeat? Because our hearts yearn for Dracula's presence,” he explained, as he had to me. Then he laughed, as though delighting in it.

“...Just another victim of Dominus... It's driven you mad!”

She was wrong. No, there was no dark corruption motivating him. He was always like this. Still, stupidly, she clung to the idea that he couldn’t possibly have real stock in his theory. He was not mad, and Dominus had done nothing to him. I would know. I was at his side, in that very cathedral, to the last day.

“No, Shanoa... How can you be blind to this? ...If you refuse to see, then you are the fool,” he berated her, his nails scraping against the shimmering black surface of the Vessel in a desperate attempt to break it.

Then in his final moment of irrational devotion, the most incredible of miracles occured. He heard the voice of Dracula- the voice of the Dark Lord- in his head, that divine guidance, just like Richter had so long ago.

It was the voice of God.

And He would have His sacrifice.

All the light that seeped through the door turned to oppressive, choking darkness, in a cold convergence. It was as though all the magical energy in the chapel was being sucked towards one point within. Even my own magic was briefly stolen from my body in a delightful emptiness. The Vessel, the Seal, was an egg. It was hatching, taking all the effort it could, and with Shanoa, bound to all three pieces of Dominus, that energy was its own in this moment, sucked towards that point like its own equal absorption. All we needed was the blood of the dead to feed Him. The sacrifice.

“Oh ho ho... What's this? This power... My strength is returning! Yes my lord, I see... I will destroy the infernal seal with your blessing! ...Truly providence, that Dracula would honor me with His guidance!” He slumped against the Vessel, chuckling in disbelief and delight.

“No... I feel a new power,” Shanoa’s voice wavered, softly.

He gave his final prayer to his own master: “...I will give my life to undo the seal, Master. Return to us, my Lord!”

And he laughed as he died, the light claiming him and then exploding like that day the weapon had attempted her first casting, light so incredibly bright it was seen throughout every hall of the Order's cathedral. 'Twas the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, even as it left me briefly without sight in its all-encompassing brilliance; even if it meant my dear father had died a martyr.

The ebony spires of Castlevania penetrated through the earth and into the sky, inspiring the hearts of all who looked upon it, and in that highest spire sat our Dark King, waiting in his bloodthirst.

He had won.

The Lord had been birthed.

Author’s Note:

And thus, the tragic tale of my dearest Master and Father has ended. I take solace in that he died believing his life’s work had been complete, and I am glad that he never saw the crushing disappointment that followed- his traitorous disciple went on to prematurely stop Dracula’s purifying chaos, thus halting the revelation. Alas, as we were so close to having set the divine plan in motion. Light and shadow are twins, after all. My heart grieves for him after having witnessed him die heroically for our cause, and I mourn him even now, years later. We worked together on this tome, up until this ultimate chapter, which, sorrowfully, I had to bring to fruition on my own. I was a witness of that awful girl’s path of destruction and my firsthand knowledge of her betrayal was invaluable to complete the book, but this was still immensely difficult for me to write.

I will not pursue Shanoa for vengeance, and I ask that you do not seek her out either. We of the Order are, after all, of superior morality, and would not stoop to such lows. Regardless of what happens in life, an eternity of suffering in hell still awaits her, and as she waits for that inevitability, she will live tormented by the guilty conscience of a murderer (if her witless brain even has the capacity for remorse, now). Besides, I have work to do, and knowledge to pass on; the best revenge is to live well, I think.

Indeed, I shall carry His ideals, and the ideals of Ecclesia itself, into eternity, passing down the last of our scholarly pursuits to my children, and they to their children after me. We shall be with light for eternity, no matter how they seek to censor and destroy our holy desires.

The more knowledge, the more sorrow. But progress requires such anguished wisdom. Remember that.

With Light, Lucila Fortner

“For there is no lasting remembrance of the wise, just as with the fool, seeing that both will be forgotten in the days to come.”

Dear reader,

Greetings. It is I, Shanoa: the weapon; the murderer; the heartless thing. However you wish to know me.

The manuscript you have read is perhaps the only firsthand account left of Ecclesia. I meant to destroy it, to cast it into the fire and forget it like all the rest, but I thought against it. If this story persists into memory, as I have no doubt it will, despite my efforts to be forgotten, I want my voice to accompany it. Trying to hide any record will, ultimately, be a fruitless effort- even years later I am still finding documentation I have missed. So now, this is my account of this tragedic narrative and its conclusion. I’d rather that live on than not.

I don’t want Ecclesia’s voices, the voices of those who abused me, to be the only ones that speak of me. I’m sure you can understand that...

But, yes, as I have implied, I did destroy most of Ecclesia’s research, and the cathedral. By the time I had returned from the castle, the place was abandoned and silent, and looked as though it were any other building. All had fled my almost-anger as I had stormed through Castlevania; it had been only a few days prior to my return but felt like the span of a lifetime. I conjured the fire of Vol Ignis, and the piles of dry, dusty old books caught the whole place alight within seconds . Flames erupted around me, burning the horrid place down to its foundations.

It would all burn- all of Ecclesia. My home; my church; my phrontistery; my Golgotha; my hell.

It would burn until there was nothing left but a new self. A new Shanoa. A blank slate. Hah. It’s odd, though, even finding my ‘old name’ within the text didn’t really make me feel anything towards it, or that I ought to use it again... I suppose it had been so long since I went by Agathe that she wasn’t me any more. Even then, I had forgotten quickly, though perhaps that was by design. Regardless, I do not wish to become some old version of myself. I quite like the one I have shaped with my own hands. That’s the real Shanoa. I made the name my own.

As I watched the purifying, cleansing flames engulf the cathedral, I wept. It was not the loss of the arcane books and knowledge; that did not cause me this deep sorrow- though perhaps the loss of Albus’s research was a tragedy, being one of the last traces of his unfortunate life. Nay, it was the burden I would carry, heavy upon my shoulders and lashed across my back like a devoted flagellant; all of the truth that had been revealed, all I now knew, had brought me hitherto unknown pain; my own tragic role in this repeating cycle. Dracula had been defeated, but it was a temporary and hollow victory. I had lost too much; he would return again as long as there were those that wished it, like my detestable master. As it always was, as it always will be. I had borne witness to all of it.

I was the sun.

And I was far too aware.

It was tempting to wallow in this dawning sorrow, to lament the loss of my innocence, as the flames cleansed away all traces of Ecclesia. Perhaps the storied Belmont clan would have understood my grief, as they too struggled in their own futile cycle. It had destroyed their last heir from within, after all. I considered this as I chewed an apple I had found in my satchel, some of the last of my provisions I had taken to the castle.

What would I have said to Richter Belmont, if we met? For some reason, I can only muster great sympathy for the disgraced, villainous hunter, with emotions that were far too new to understand, and to an extent, still are. I know he was manipulated, despite how he is presented in the preceding text. I know I was, too.

And yet... Yet, I know Belmonts. They populate the village Wygol; they are shopkeeps and tailors and blacksmiths and jewelers. I married one! They are happy, happy in a way I could have only barely grasped back then, even while they were in the face of this unending, cyclical thing. Had Richter’s disappearance set them free of that cycle? Maybe so.

That happiness... Maybe I understand now, with my reclaimed emotions- my dear brother’s last gift, his final act of love. His love was something stubborn and persistent: stubborn enough to kill him. I had become a wretched, violent, mindless thing, and yet he still loved me. He loved me more than anything. It amazes me even now, even while I am older and these wounds have long since healed.

Everyone in the village, too... Why else should the jeweler have tried so hard to awaken my heart? Why else did the young boy invite me to play? Why else did the old woman welcome me inside as a friend? Why, why, why? They loved me. Of course they did. I can only see that now, with my once-clouded eyes that were blinded by the malady my master had cast upon me.

But I am not blind anymore.

What can I say of Ecclesia...? Ecclesia was not my home, and never was. Barlowe could not see that cycles could be escaped, or that happiness could still flourish despite them; he resigned himself to that despair until it became his joy, rather than seeking to change things for the better or keep fighting for those who still lived like a true hunter- like how I fought Dracula despite the void that had nearly destroyed me. He could have been different. Maybe that is a tragedy, but he was a vile man, and not to be mourned. He got what he deserved, destroyed by the very blind faith that drew him to hurt the innocent. Maybe Lucila, the author herself, my former friend, was also a tragedy; she was as manipulated by him as I was.

I shall leave you with this detail, in hopes that you will think about it a small while: that day that Morris Baldwin and his students had visited us, someone had indeed informed them of the questionable aspects of our upbringing. It was not Albus, though he was punished for it; it was not me, as I was too naive to perceive my life in the Order as mistreatment. Nor was it any other disciple but Lucila herself, so concerned by the injury Albus had suffered shortly before. She had asked to leave with Baldwin, and that was when all hell had broken loose. I know this because she told my dear brother- both of us, actually- having snuck into our room the midnight afterwards and wept into our arms for forgiveness now that Barlowe was so angry. I do not know whether she omitted this detail intentionally, or had repressed the memory. I could not presume to guess, but I am certain of this: she was, like we all were, merely a scared child. She never escaped, even after Barlowe had died, really, so perhaps in some ways she still is.

Perhaps when I read this, I expected to find answers to why Barlowe had come to such beliefs; why things had happened as they did; why he wanted to hurt and kill me. All I found was madness. Perhaps I, too, wished to rationalize the events in my life. Trying to ascribe a greater meaning to them, however, is futile, I think. Things happen, and all we can do is our best, and be kind, not hope for some holy retribution. And that’s life. There is immense beauty in life! I never understood that until I nearly lost mine.

This I am certain of: humanity could never be inherently dark like Barlowe thought: the kindness afforded to me by strangers, the continued struggle to live happily in the face of these cycles... I had seen the goodness in their hearts, and the only “darkness within the souls of mankind” was from people like Barlowe.

He had become a self-fulfilled prophecy. I had become something different entirely.

I still recall my thoughts on that bittersweet day: I’m going to be alive, I thought, standing under the delicate golden threads of sunlight, and it thrilled me! And that excitement- I had never been excited before! This gave way to a cavalcade of feeling. Oh, how I felt: complicated, torrential things, but I felt them.

This life; this knowledge of the truth: they were your greatest gift. I thank you, Albus, more than anything, even if these words cannot reach you now. Thank you, my brother; my dearest love.

I turned towards the familiar forest path to the little township, and found myself smiling, despite all I had lost. But the sun was rising over me, and the day had welcomed me anew. I was to be welcomed home.

I was freed, then, and I am free now.

I could write more extensively- write a memoire even longer than Lucila’s, really; I could spend pages upon pages begging you to think of me as a good person, not merely a complacent sword, since some part of me is still insecure and guilty when I dare to think of these chapters of my life... but I think the actions of Barlowe within the preceding text, even through such a warped, misshapen lens, speak for themselves. I need not explain myself, I hope.

Besides, my wife Laura is calling me for dinner, and I would feel just awful to keep her waiting.

Yours,

Mrs. Shanoa Belmont