The Coffin Club Presents

The city burned. Nia fled through back alleys, across cobblestones, ducked behind carts and into doorways. Her sandals muffled her footsteps, but she didn’t need to worry. The cries and revelry of the soldiers were greater than the sound of a single girl creeping through the smoke-choked twilight.

The armies of Roden had breached the gate earlier in the day. The Head Monk of the Priory of Earth had abandoned his post in a misguided effort to parlay with the invaders. An inopportune exit through a doorway turned into a hostage, into an entry, into the sacking of the city of Dalira. They had been sieged for weeks and it was over due to one careless mistake.

Nia slipped into the Temple of the Moon and approached the altar. It was a simple stone building, with a small amount of rooms. The main room was the prayer hall, a place of sitting, reflecting, studying the glass windows that told the story of their moons paths.

She kicked off her sandals, smoothed her plain robes and pulled her hood over her head as she took the Head Sister’s position behind the altar and exhaled. Head Sister had been thorough in her instruction: strike the bell three times, reach in to the drawer beneath, find the clasp, pull, then speak the prayer aloud. Nia was faithful and attentive, did as she was told, and bowed her head.

“Mother Argenta. Word-Bearer. Bullet of Retribution. Bringer of Faith. Last Woman of the Moon. Please hear my call.”

Silence, save for the riots in the streets. And then, distantly, a whisper in her ear, coming from somewhere in the altar. She leaned in, saw where the moons had been carved on its surface, and felt the vibrations as she heard the words.

“Oh what the fuck. You’re a kid? What’s going on down there.”