A Flame Snuffed Out

Malika did not bow her head. So far as she was concerned, faith had failed her. Her eyes had been on the holy man, his vestments - tattered as they were - and on the implements of his office. And so she saw the candle of Varenniel puff out of its own accord.

A chill ran down her spine, and she shuddered. Somehow, Morduth noticed the change, as well, and it spoke into her mind.

Mistress, it said, alarm in its voice. Malika could only nod. She didn't know yet if the sword understood body language, but it did not speak again. Malika's mind fixed on a single word, and it filled her with trepidation - defilement. Her mind immediately flickered to the figure of the Gorgon, and she knew that somehow the greater of the deathless she had faced the night prior was to blame for the now cold candle wick.

The last streamers of smoke rose to the ceiling as Malika left her seat and stumbled from the chapel, gasping for air. Sweat stood out on her brow, and she collapsed on the ground nearby. Evil moved this day.