Bright Day, Dark Night
Orthael breathed out evenly, nodding. He had known, rationally, the moment that Varreniel's Candle had snuffed out. But it was another thing entirely to hear that it confirmed, that all the wards and defenses of a cathedral of the Flame had failed against their enemy. Cathedrals were the spiritual and physical fortresses of the church, filled with men and women who sought the light and trained in its defense.
He could not count on their help now. A feeling of helplessness arose in him, unbidden, unresponsive to his internal insistence that the Flame still burned bright for him in this dark time.
"I am Reliath," he said, as much to himself as to her. "Servant of the All-Consumer, wielder of Judgement as Orthael to the Nineteenth High Conclave. The Flame finds a way, and today it seems we are the ones it shall call on... Malika."
Judgement settled back into its sheath. It had been waiting a long time for Orthael to ask this question of it.
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