An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege-Chapter 28: Lucinda the Flaming Maiden (2)...

The young Count's carriage rumbled through the cobbled streets of Maesta. Even with all the damage and the town's diminished status, it retained a humble beauty—one that seemed to transcend time.

Beneath the scars of the Surge, everything appeared mundane. There was no grandeur to flaunt its wealth, no opulence to boast of power. Instead, Maesta was simply neat, a testament to the effort of its people to maintain what little they had. Perhaps that was why those who were hellbent on resenting the young Count felt offended by his presence, as though his carriage defiled their hard-won simplicity. It was ironic, for they seemed to have forgotten whose blood and sweat had built the town they now sought to protect.

Krael scoffed inwardly, though his face remained impassive. Their disdain did not concern him. If anything, it was his father's mercy that allowed them the luxury of sneering at him at all.

Maesta had never been meant to be a town in the first place. It was originally a stretch of land, overseen by the Maesta family, meant solely for farming food for the city. Because of this, its land was vast—far greater than most regions in the East Cardinal. But with such land came the need for labor, and the Maesta family had to employ workers to cultivate the fields.

Over time, those workers settled. Their numbers grew, and with them, a community took root. Eventually, the higher-ups conferred noble status upon the Maesta family. Yet despite the title, by blood and by generations, all they would truly amount to if they details were in tow was that they were lords of the manor—nothing more, nothing less.

And so, Maesta was officially recognized as a town under the Count Maesta's family, or as it was formerly known, Emberfall.

But looking at the people now, their eyes filled with disdain—or was it scorn?—Krael couldn't help but wonder if they had forgotten whose land they so desperately wished to claim as their own.

The carriage rolled into the town square, an open expanse bathed in the eerie glow of the Eternal Pyre.

A sacred altar of mystical flames stood at its center, flickering with colors that refused to settle—shifting between gold, violet, and deep crimson depending on the mind that beheld them. Every major settlement had such a flame. Its purpose was unclear. It did not provide warmth or light in the conventional sense, yet the temple priests revered it, using it in place of statues to honor the Great Diearch.

The pyre loomed over the plaza, its ethereal fire licking at the sky. Suspended above it, an intricate archway of blackened bronze bore countless etchings—prayers carved by those desperate enough to bare their deepest sorrows and wishes, hoping that the flame's mysterious power might grant them solace.

Krael scoffed inwardly.

Why would the divine care for the woes of mortal men?

Each time the great flame flickered, the runes inscribed upon the archway hummed with celestial energy, as if the fire and the prayers whispered to one another in silent communion.

At the heart of the square stood the Altar of the Eternal Flame, resting upon a tiered platform of obsidian and marble. Here, veiled nuns in red-and-gold-threaded robes tended to the sacred fire, their voices a blend of fluttering wings and crackling embers, murmuring prayers that tickled the soul.

With every word they spoke, the fire would flicker in tandem, giving the illusion of sentience. But Krael knew better. It was nothing but a performance—a spectacle for foolish mortals. The ravings had always told him that there was no greater joke in the world than these so-called maiden nuns.

And yet, a lie told well enough could become truth.

Their fire-kissed hands healed wounds, burning away corruption—the despair and rot left behind by the Lurker's darkness. Some claimed that the flames guided the dead, ushering their souls into the Diearch's warm embrace. Gentle wisps of color wove around the sick and the suffering, erasing affliction without pain.

Then there were the others—the Cremation Priestesses. They handled the dead. The nameless, the abandoned, the torn and dismembered. Each day, new bodies were brought to the pyre to be burned. Once, this was only for the forgotten, but in recent years, even those with families were placed into the flames. A belief had taken root—that cremation would send the soul directly to the Diearch, sparing them from the burden of burial.

The flames roared, devouring corpses in a purging blaze, releasing embers that drifted skyward like wandering souls. Another deception for the desperate.

But Krael, with his ever-growing perception—one that now brushed against the veil of the supernatural—could hear them. The screams of souls as they burned.

For what purpose, he did not know. And the ravings would not say. They only chuckled, delighting in his curiosity.

The women tending the fire were known as the Sisters of the Searing Flame—healers, priests, and wardens of the afterlife.

Their robes, embroidered with runic scripture, shifted with the will of the fire—white-gold for healing, black-gold for mourning, and crimson-gold for worship. Some walked barefoot upon the heated stone, immune to the burn, while others carried censers filled with sacred embers, trailing shimmering ash in their wake.

It was a mesmerizing sight—one that distracted the people of Maesta from their grief.

The Sisters were divided by their roles:

Healers of the Touch: Their hands glowed with gentle flames as they mended wounds, cured ailments, and soothed suffering.Cremation Priestesses: Singing haunting dirges, they oversaw the transition of souls, ensuring no spirit lingered beyond death. Or so they claimed. Flame-Oracles: Standing entranced before the altar, they received visions through the flickering tongues of fire—omens of the town's future, spoken to instill hope and deepen devotion.

The square itself was lined with towering braziers of eternal flame, their heat warding off malevolent spirits. Or so it was said.

According to the Sisters, when the abominations from beyond the wall perish on Astrea's land, they would leave behind resentment—hatred that festered, growing into restless spirits. That was why the sacred fire was so important.

The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and myrrh, mingling with the soft chants of the nuns. Statues of forgotten heroes stood along the square's perimeter, their stone eyes carved with sorrow, their hands lifted toward the distant, ever-burning pillar.

Among them were statues of the Maesta bloodline, from its founding to its present. The most recent additions were the fallen Count and Countess.

But Krael refused to acknowledge them.

It insulted him—to see his parents captured in frozen grief, reduced to mere objects to glorify the might and worship of the Diearch by puny mortals.

On the outskirts of the square, vendors sold charms of cooled emberstone, promising protection and peace to those who wore them.

Krael had to admit—that merchants always found a way to profit, so long as they knew how to twist a circumstance in their favor.

Wandering monks preached the Flame's Judgment and Rebirth, offering hope to those who had none.

Beneath it all, the city pulsed with the fire's undying heartbeat.

And when night fell, the square would glow like a beacon, guiding lost travelers and spirits alike. Some swore they would see figures dancing in the flames—souls finding their way, gods watching in silent reverence, or something far older whispering from the embers.

This was the Maesta Town Sqaure. And at the heart of it all, he saw the reason for his journey, here.

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The so called Flaming Maiden....