Capítulo 10: fear your own shadow.

When Damian's group reached the lobby of Morgan Blackbriar's offices, they were stopped by an unexpected crowd blocking the doors.

The first floor had been busy enough when they passed through an hour or so ago, but now there was a frenzy of activity consuming the offices. Staff rushed about, telephones rang off their hooks—and clustered just inside the lobby's entrance were a dozen or more Apostles gathered around a single man.

The Apostles always struck a note of uncertainty in Damian's heart.

Like the Priests of the Flame, the Apostles of the Deep preferred to keep their faces hidden, but where the Priests were content with long hoods, the Apostles instead wore expressionless, white masks.

Each Apostle stood at almost the same height, as though they'd all been selected for their body shape rather than their belief in the Angel.

Each wore shapeless black clothes, somewhere between robes and baggy suits, designed to amplify the Deep's power, like Lynn's gloves. The longer Damian tried to make out their clothes, or their bodies, the less he saw. It was like trying to remember a half-forgotten dream, the details getting fuzzier with every passing moment.

What Damian could see clearly were those masks.

Perfectly oval, perfectly white, standing out sharply against the deep black of their clothes. Each mask was marked with a distinctive slash of black paint, rising from the left side of the mask to the upper right. The masks had no holes for eyes, nor mouths; how the Apostles navigated the world was an incomprehensible mystery.

Just like Morgan Blackbriar, Damian mused. Perhaps there was far more to the Deep's powers than he'd ever suspected.

The Apostles shifted, revealing the man they'd been surrounding.

"Well, shit," Lynn muttered. "Today keeps getting weirder."

"For the second time today, I agree with you."

Damian struggled to keep his composure as the black-robed figure approached him.

"Crown Prince Damian Roswald, what a pleasure to see you again."

The man barely reached Damian's shoulder, such was the extent of his crooked spine.

Time had not been kind to the man, leaving deep wrinkles in his skin, and splotchy marks across his face. His eyes were dark, with heavy vein-marked shadows hanging beneath them. His hands were gnarled, and his breathing labored, as though the very act of being alive was rapidly bringing him closer to the grave.

"Your Holiness, it is an honor to be in your presence again."

Damian bowed deeply, his reverence more genuine than an onlooker might have expected. Lynn curtsied—as much as her armor would allow her—though her eyes did not stray from the newcomer. Dominic merely inclined his head, refusing to look away from the Apostles for even a moment.

If the holy man had a name, it had long been forgotten by the people. Far and wide throughout the kingdom, his title had replaced his identity. The wizened old man before Damian was none other than the Collective's highest-ranking member: the Deacon of the Deep.

"Last I saw you, you were but a child. Time—time gets very strange, when you're as old as I am. Perhaps one day you'll understand, young one."

A wry smile played across the Deacon's lips. His words were soft, and slightly incoherent, as though he wasn't entirely sure of his own train of thought.

Damian had met the Deacon once before, as a young child, during an official visit with Queen Amelia. Damian thought the old man could've been from some distant offshoot of the Roswald family—but perhaps the friendly wrinkles around the Deacon's eyes just tugged at Damian's heartstrings, making him long for his grandparents.

"You'll have to forgive me, Your Holiness. I would gladly like to speak with you longer, but pressing matters insist I return to Rossheim."

Damian told the truth—it was nearly impossible to arrange an appointment with the Deacon, even for the Crown Prince.

But at that very moment, every fiber of Damian's being was screaming at him to get the hell out of Tenebrae. The Deep's very presence crawled across his skin, trying to slip through the cracks in his faith, looking for the chinks in his belief.

Morgan Blackbriar's words had planted a chill deep into Damian's soul, the type of uncomfortable sensation that could only be done away with by a soft chair, a good meal, and perhaps a glass of something strong. But before he could indulge in those comforts, Damian needed to report back to his Uncle.

Something is very wrong in Tenebrae. If Leon doesn't know about it yet, he soon will—and the Crown needs to be prepared. Missing Apostles; the High Seat in chaos; and the Deacon coming for a private meeting. What could this mean?

"Of course, young child, I would not dream of holding up the Crown Prince."

The Deacon's words dragged Damian out of his thoughts. He waved a hand in a relaxed motion, his fingers curled tightly with arthritis. The holy man hesitated for a moment, perhaps doubting his next words.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft but serious.

"You have always been weak with the Flame, no?"

Damian didn't need to refute the statement—it was widely known that the Crown Prince of Sidralis had a tenuous connection with the Angel of the Flame. The Order decried this as proof that Sidralis was losing its faith in the heavens; the Collective saw this as an opportunity to expand their control when the king passed. Everyone else just gossiped however they liked.

"Tell me, Your Highness," the Deacon continued. "Have you truly never considered the path of the Deep? Long before there was light, there was darkness—it is man's true calling. Denying the shadow is like denying water or air. Some might say that it's your natural birthright."

"I appreciate the impromptu sermon, Your Holiness, but my position as Crown Prince obligates me to worship the Flame—whether I receive the Angel's Blessings is another matter entirely."

A deep sorrow settled into the Deacon's gaze, and he gave a sad smile.

"Ah, I suppose this you isn't the right one, then. A terrible shame."

At Damian's quizzical look, the Deacon waved his hand again.

"Please, ignore the ramblings of this old man. May the Blessings of the Angel—whichever you choose to follow—be upon you."

With that awkward and slightly confusing exchange, the Deacon shuffled past them, surrounded again by his entourage of Apostles. The shadows seemed to cling tightly around the Apostles, darkness peeling off the walls to shroud the group as they slowly made their way upstairs.

When the Deacon had left his sight, Damian turned back to Lynn and Dominic, a tired sigh escaping his lips.

"Come on, let's go back home. I'm tired."

Lynn took her place in front of the prince. She lowered her voice so only Damian could hear her.

"I agree. The sooner we're back under the protection of the Flame, the better."

"You know, if I keep agreeing with you all day long, I might actually start to like you."

Lynn looked over her shoulder, a playful glint in her eyes.

"Now, now, we wouldn't want that, would we, Your Highness? I suppose I'll just have to find a way to make myself more disagreeable to you. Should I tell Dom that you've been slacking on your sparring sessions?"

"Don't you—!"

It was already too late.

With a fierce rumble, a dark shadow fell over Damian.

Letting out an almost comical gulp, the prince turned to his bodyguard and personal trainer. Dominic didn't need to say anything—the fierce glare beneath his dark-tinted sunglasses was enough to scare the mask off an Apostle.

Damian sighed and resigned himself to a double-length sparring session the following morning.

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