24991116 | 0324
Temple Church | River Thames | City 06
51°30′28.50″ N
000°06′22.46″ W
The doors slid shut with hydraulic finality.
For a moment there was only silence.
Stone, steel and breath.
Adam felt a sensation more than he cared to dwell upon.
The way the mind seemingly wandered, a momentary lapse.
Caught between incense and elevators, ancient stone and claustrophobic sensation of the crushing earth and stone within a steel box hurtling into the depth.
Then a gentle chime sounded overhead.
A soft melody unfurled from hidden speakers.
Warm. Serene. Soothing.
Not hymns, not choirs, not ritual drums.
Lobby music.
A synthetised piano drifted lazily through the elevator.
The kind played in airport lounges and bank waiting rooms.
Cheerful, forgettable, designed to soothe.
No one spoke.
Adam closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the momentary reprieve.
Zora blinked once, as if waking from a dream.
Gabriel stared straight ahead, he clasped his gauntleted hands as though in prayer.
Only their silent companion, seemingly unfazed, watched the floor descend beneath them, unreadable.
Adam regarded him out of the corner of his eyes.
Harbinger 03 merely stared blankly at the monotonous texture of the stone without, his eyes unblinking.
Adam felt something then.
His senses, honed to a fine edge, picked up a muted, but distinct rhythmic tapping.
Not the elevator.
Adam knew then, his silent companion, was lightly tapping his foot to the beat of the music.
Zora grunted, but said nothing.
Silence again.
The music played on.
While Harbinger 03 seems visibly relaxed, it’s driving Adam nuts.
“An odd choice,” Adam murmured, if only to break the chain of his own thoughts.
“It comforting,” the Master-at-Arms offered without turning.
“I myself, am partial to the Gregorian Sutra, I find it most… soothing.” Gabriel offered.
Adam scowled, drawing a glare from Zora.
The absurdity of it all.
Adam decided to take his mind off the monotony.
He looked out through the tall slab of glass as the elevator sank into the earth.
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At first, brick and weathered stone framed the shaft.
Old masonry, mortar long since blackened by incense and time.
Gothic ribs, arches, carved reliefs softened by centuries.
Then the stone gave way to steel.
Reinforced struts, alloy bulkheads, conduit lines humming faintly.
The armored foundation beneath the church fa?ade.
Functional.
The modern overlaid the ancient. Built for war.
Lower still.
The plating ended and the walls turned to smooth-cut earth.
Packed clay and sediment scored with stabilizing pillars.
No markings, untouched by human hands.
Just soil and ancient strata.
Deeper.
Rock layers emerged, veined with quartz and dark minerals.
Even at this depth, he could make out the colors shifting vibrantly.
Rust-red bands, pale fossil flecks, black shale that swallowed light.
How deep are we? He thought.
The earth is old.
Older than the city above, older than stonework, older than faith.
A gnawing, skittering chill travelled down his spine.
He could not say why.
The elevator finally slowed.
The steel walls gave way to raw earth once more.
But here, a manmade tunnel.
Adam took in his surroundings.
Stark, white light used in mines and underground tunnels illuminated their path.
The air felt damp, and stale.
The scent of the deeps of the earth, a realm concealed from the surface.
“Come,” Duncan said.
The soil bore marks of excavation.
Not heavy machineries, but toiled by hands.
Ancient support beams, made of solid and sturdy oak, stood for centuries holding up the weight of the earth.
Zora caught Adam’s eyes.
She frowned.
“These stones.” she whispered. “They are old.”
“Indeed,” Duncan replied, “hearkening back to the age of our forefathers.”
Adam did not reply.
As they trotted on, the floor beneath their boots changed.
Steel panels ended, replaced by dark stone cut into precise hexagonal tiles.
No mortar.
No seams.
Each slab fitted perfectly into the next, like a puzzle assembled by giant, patient hands.
Artisanry lost in today’s craft.
The chamber widened into a naturally-smooth corridor, as if carved not by machines but by pressure and time.
The clinical glow of the mining lamp gave way to more conventional overhead halogen strips.
The Harbingers, despite their impassive visage, breathed a visible sigh of relief.
Their unvoiced stress eased.
The glyphs of the Nine, hung from banners and ancient tapestries.
Some gossamer, some work of art hearkening to the first days of Jerusalem.
Adam slowed.
A memory he could not recall.
Something here predated the prayers.
War.
Ancient.
The cradle of humanity.
Duncan strode ahead, seemingly at home.
They reached another stainless steel double doors.
Decidedly modern, Adam thought.
The Master-at-Arm again removed the glove, and pressed his bare palm against the sensor panel.
The doors hissed open.
“The Armory,” he declared solemnly.
The doors parted to reveal a cavernous hall.
Vast, silent, hewn of stone darker than iron.
“The Armory,” Duncan declared.
The doors parted with a groan that felt older than the Church itself.
A cavernous hall unfurled before them—vast, cold, carved from stone darker than iron.
Not empty, but expectant.
The ancient Order Hall of the Knights of the Black Lily.
Braziers burned along the walls, their flames a pale blue-white.
No smoke, only the scent of myrrh and hot metal.
Light pooled in muted circles across the flagstones, leaving miles of shadow between them.
The ceiling arched impossibly high, held aloft by towering pillars engraved with shallow spirals and fractured sigils - marks half-erased by centuries of palms, prayers, and armor.
Banners of old campaigns and forgotten kingdoms hung beside hand-sewn tapestries, their colors muted by time.
Knights long dead stared out in thread and faded gold leaf.
Rows upon rows of armor stood in their T-brace racks, ancient and archaic,
Silent sentinels awaiting the End Times.
Blackened plate with bone-white trim gleamed beneath the braziers.
Weapons rested upon velvet-lined cradles—swords, maces, flails—each one a master-craft forged in forgotten centuries.
The Harbingers took it all in, wordless and awed.
Their attention fell to the hooded figures drifting between the pillars.
Small, no taller than four feet, they moved with ritual precision, robes whispering over stone.
Some bore bowls of fragrant oil.
Others carried incense chains that trailed pale smoke along the floor.
Acolytes sworn to silent service.
Not one looked at the Harbingers.
Not one spoke.
Duncan stepped forward and turned to face his charges.
“Here, within the bonds of brotherhood,” he intoned, “the steel of the Faithful is forged. The Church labors to free the faithful from the oppression of the wicked and the sinned.”
A proclamation.
A line handed down from Chapter Master to Chapter Master.
The Harbingers advanced and recited the formal words, thanking Duncan for the honor about to be bestowed.
“You shalt be anointed in the slowing scriptures,” the Master-at-Arms declared, “your flesh made worthy to bear the sacred armaments of our Church. You shalt be gifted the Armor of the Faithful, and the Arms of the Righteous.”
The Harbingers bowed their heads, voicing their oath to bear this charge, to carry the teachings of the Church into the towers of glass and steel.
Duncan nodded once.
Without turning, he called into the hall, “Servants. Attend us.”
The hooded figures froze mid-step.
Their low murmurs died.
Slowly, they turned as one.
From beneath their lowered cowls, unseen eyes fixed upon the four warriors.
A prickle crawled over Adam’s spine.
He forced the reaction away, angry at himself.
“Servants,” Duncan proclaimed, “these four are Her Eminence’s anointed champions.”
The diminutive figures made no reply.
They only stood, statues of cloth and shadow.
“Harbingers, four they be.” Duncan said quietly, spreading his hands, “let us clad them in the Armor of Faith.”
