An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege-Chapter 27: Lucinda the flaming Maiden (1)...

The Count's carriage moved steadily along the cobbled streets of Maesta, a display of noble regality. Had it been any other time, the people might have paused to bow or show their respects to the young Count. But in these days, when so many searched for the remains of their loved ones, none could bring themselves to care about decorum or titles.

Though many understood his intent—to assess the state of his land—resentment festered among them. While they wept over their losses, their ruler merely took a casual stroll through his territory, never once stepping out to console his people. And with each passing moment, that bitter seed of hatred grew.

They did not know exactly when it began, but it had taken root nonetheless.

The previous Count and his wife had been people of great respect. The Count himself was strong and valiant, always ensuring that his people came first, even at the cost of his own luxury.

During his time, though the Surge had always brought suffering, many believed there had been fewer deaths under his rule.

The people saw what they wanted to see, regardless of reality.

The Countess had been beautiful and gentle, her very presence bringing a sense of calm to those around her. It was impossible not to adore the pair.

So when they died, the grief was immense.

First, the wife—leaving behind her husband and child. Then, the Count himself perished, leaving only the young heir.

At first, the people of Maesta pitied the boy, for they knew that without his inheritance, he would have been devoured by the power struggles around him.

But as he grew, that pity faded, replaced by a growing disappointment.

To them, Krael lacked everything his parents had embodied. He was cold and distant. Arrogant.

Perhaps, they reasoned, it was because he had grown without proper care. They could almost excuse it.

But then, he dismissed the entire household staff of the estate.

His reasons were unknown, though the staff was not large enough to justify such hate, for although what he had done could be called cruel, it was his right to do as he pleased without asking the opinions of others. And in a place where rumors spread like wildfire, his decision painted a dark image of him—especially when someone behind the scenes ensured it did.

Many had relatives who had served at the estate, taking pride in their roles. Their positions had been a source of stability, of status. And then, with one stroke, the young Count had shattered those dreams.

Resentment festered.

Then came the growing divide between the Count and his people.

He had never spoken to them directly. It was always his butler who addressed them. Always Adler who handled affairs.

And that, more than anything, ignited anger in their hearts.

Yet, with the Surge approaching, few had given it much thought.

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Now, with tension brewing for who knew how long, it was only a matter of time before it erupted.

—

Luckily for the Count, he had stopped paying attention to the people's gazes and whispers.

Instead, he focused on surveying the damage.

The buildings, at least, remained intact—shielded by the power and blessing of the Great Diearch. Thin films of dark, divine energy had once coated the structures deemed worthy of the deity's blessing, throughout the year.

But the land itself had not been so fortunate.

The streets were ruined. The farmlands were scarred beyond recognition. The animals, painstakingly raised over generations, were all but gone.

Bodies littered the ground.

Men and women toiled to clear them away, struggling to collect what remained so that families could reclaim their dead. Some stood crowded around white-draped corpses, searching desperately for those they had lost.

It was a horrifying sight.

Some prodded at dismembered limbs, hoping to recognize a loved one. Others, fortunate enough to find a living relative, discovered that survival did not always mean salvation.

For many who lived through the horrors of the Surge... might as well have been dead.

Their minds were shattered, their souls broken beyond recognition.

The horrors that came with the Surge could break even the strongest of warriors, mythical figures, and even the weak-willed Pathwalkers.

Never mind those who were completely mortal.

And yet, their fate was not as grim as it seemed. For there was a way to mend those broken in mind and spirit.

They would be taken to the altar in the town square, purified under sacred flames. The temple nuns and maidens, tending to the wounded, would cleanse their minds and return them to sanity.

But the price...

It was a cost many were unwilling to pay.

Yet in the grand scheme of things, it was better than death.

—

But then came the question:

If the Great Diearch's flames had protected the structures...the homes, the places many sought to seek refuge from through the year...

How did so many find themselves outside—waiting to be slaughtered when the Surge began?

The answer was simple.

Ruthlessness was mercy upon oneself.

And even those who knew it... could do nothing but pray to the one who had allowed it to happen.

—

As the carriage moved slowly along the broken streets, the sound of murmuring voices seeped into its interior.

Krael had not been listening.

But one conversation caught his attention.

They spoke of a temple maiden.

A woman whose presence alone carried the mark of the Chosen.

A maiden whose voice and eyes alone had soothed the sorrow in the hearts of Maesta's people.

Ordinarily, such a thing would not have been strange. At the end of every Surge, the temple would send its nuns to heal the wounded, pray for the departed, cremate the unclaimed dead, and preach of the Great Diearch's eternal love.

It was expected.

But this time...

This time, something was different.

Krael could not place it, but the atmosphere had shifted.

A veiled danger lurked beneath the surface.

At first, he had thought it was just the ravings playing their games. Whispering nonsense. Twisting his thoughts for their amusement.

So he ignored it.

But now?

Now, he felt it.

The way the people looked—elated, content—when only hatred should have burned in their eyes.

Something was wrong.

"Head to the Town Square, Adler."

Krael's voice was cold.

"I want to see this Maiden who has stirred my town so deeply."