Doom: Beyond the Veil of Shadows

1

DEATH

Three weeks ago

We arrived early to the stoning.

The sun, with its malignant glow, had yet to rise as we emerged from our cottage, our worn boots crunching through the thin layer of frost covering the village. Our footprints are among the first to tarnish the pristine white.

The village square was not empty.

I could make out a lone figure—the Heofonweard—standing like a beacon of authority. The townsfolk worship him as voice of the celestial faith, guardian of the Cyrican church, and messenger of the Almighty Amel. I think him a respectable man, though my mother's faith far surpasses mine. She likens him to a god, hoping our devotion, righteousness, and punctuality might curry his favour.

"Heofonweard, Amel blessed," my mother greets him, her voice trembling with excitement. We both dip, our dark skirts rippling, eyes dropping modestly.

"Widow Whitmaw. Maeve," he acknowledges us with a nod. "Good morrow to you both." Unlike most folk, the Heofonweard holds himself like nobility, his posture unwavering, his eyes scanning the horizon in anticipation. He always arrived on time, right before sunrise, as if he secretly loves the brutality and savours the violence.

One thing is certain: he never missed a stoning.

"You've outpaced the dawn itself. The day is yet to catch up with your zeal," he compliments, his voice deep and calming. At his words, the sun peeks over the horizon, its rays glinting off the purple and gold of his ceremonial robes as if it can't quite believe its luck in touching him.

I keep my eyes lowered, but I can see that my mother has hers raised, squinting, and smiling, as though she were blinded by glory itself.

"Oh!" my mother laughs, sounding girlish, "my dedication to justice is as early-rising as we are, Sire."

"Then we shall wait as the day gathers its breath, a Court Day demands assembly," the Heofonweard replies, leading us to the square's dais. "Miss Whitmaw?"

I trail behind them, nibbling my lower lip, feeling wound too tight. "Yes—my apologies, Heofonweard."

"This Liturgy Guide," he says, producing a book from his stole. "You are the scribe assuming service, correct?"

"Yes, Sire. I enjoy the work; it is, um, fulfilling work," I say, casting a sidelong look at my mother—thanks to Matron Briga, I have lessons thrice weekly within the Cyrican, learning to write and scribe ancient texts. I am a quick study and already know how to do these things, and more.

"Good," he responds, his voice quiet but firm, as though his approval is rarely given. "Then fulfil it well." With that, he turns to prepare for the service.

I quickly bow my head. "Thank you, Sire. Blessings upon you," I mutter under my breath, feeling the weight of his presence as he departs.

My mother gives me a withering look, making me shift uneasily under her gaze. "Too many sinners, too little humility," she says, her voice churlish. My mother envies me, I think, because I have something she does not, and she hates it, pretending otherwise, diverting elsewhere. "The common man is Deofol-prone, collywobbles, and little fortitude. Today's pick will be of the same likeness, shame, a crying shame."

"One hopes for their penitence then," I suggest.

As if on cue, the village begins to wake. Candlelight flickers, shutters are drawn, and the homes of merchants and peasants welcome the early dawn. One by one, villagers duck under their doorways, curling their bodies against the biting cold. They slowly make their way to the village square, some shivering through the laden farmland, others walking the worn paths directly.