Woe befall the sinner, the bringer of decay, creator of nothing.

  Shame to the greedy, the slothful many.

  Weep for the end is nigh

  weep weep weep

  -Last utterings of Seer Caesia Sartorius before suicide, Cantor City, The Kingdom of Kilead 0 A.B.

  One thousand six hundred and ten years ago, a motley band of twenty mortals defeated the great darkness. The war was bloody, lasting many years, consuming countless lives. Humanity, in those early days of bronze and stone, was a pale reflection of what they would eventually become. For every man of science, there was a thousand warriors clad in furs, brandishing weapons of bone. No one can blame them for their primitive ways, not when the night itself was their enemy. Elves, for all their power, endless wealth, and ageless wisdom, never believed they would be anything other than apes. Now those twenty mortals were gods, ascended into the heavens to rule humanity for eternity.

  They, the elves, were long dead now. Palaces of glass, held together by magic, were torn down by the flames of war; in their stead rose castles of stone where humanity multiplied. Led by their mortal gods, humanity, the victors against the very army of evil itself, claimed its rightful position as rulers of the world. Slowly, as conquest followed conquest, the gods withdrew from the material world, believing humanity safe from threats. First to leave was Lydus, eldest and greatest of the gods, ruler of the heavens and the sun. His wife, Claudia, the god of the moon, followed suit alongside Octavia, the god of intrigue and secrecy, also remembered as the mistress of Lydus. A century passed as more gods joined their leader in heaven to rule from afar. Finally, unable to resist the call of the great beyond any longer, the final gods left. Faber, god of craftsmen, art, and invention, was the last to leave the world, for he loved being with his people more than most other gods. Together with his wife Attia, goddess of Love and beauty, sister of Claudia, Faber labored for a whole year to create a parting gift for his people. When Faber's work was done, a great tower of pure white stood high enough to reach the clouds; it contained all the teachings, writings, and artifacts of the human pantheon. Atop the final floor of the great tower, Faber left his final gift. A massive pool of pure ethereal energy, golden and glorious, a place where mortals could converse with the gods themselves.

  Pope Franciscus scratched at his dry face in frustration, flakes of skin peeling off to join the others on his lap. He had developed the habit when he first saw the 'Holy Well' nearly fifty years ago. Mortals had never been fully compatible with such power; the longer one stayed around the holy artefact, the more likely it was that one would develop some side effect. Franciscus thanked the gods that his had been as minor as a newly developed habit. Some had grown new limbs, developed a cancer, or, in some extreme cases, been torn apart in so gruesome a fashion.

  "Blinking, you say?" Franciscus asked, "Surely this must be some kind of poor jest."

  An elderly man, though not nearly as old as himself, knelt before Franciscus. Uniformed in a pure white full-body suit, like every other custodian of the Grand Cathedral of Santori, the only way to mark him was by the color of his collar. Franciscus found himself double-checking and then triple-checking to confirm that the gold of the man's collar was actually there, not an illusion.

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  "I don't know how to describe it, sir," The custodian, Sebastian, started. "I was attending my duties, ensuring all the stone was polished to perfection... like you ordered."

  Franciscus noted the slight annoyance in Sebastian's tone; edicts had a way of fouling the moods of the common folk.

  "All of a sudden, the well started... blinking, all the holy essence would be there one moment, then gone the next." Sebastian showed no sign of deception in his words.

  That is what really frightened the pope; if what he says is true, it would be a historical event, one written down in books for the ages. But what would the sign mean? Franciscus couldn't force himself to think it could be anything positive. The council of cardinals would need to be informed of this development, which would mean months of exhausting debate. Franciscus shivered at the thought.

  "You're a dutiful servant to the Holy See," Franciscus reassured Sebastian with a squeeze of his shoulder.

  Sebastian relaxed with the gesture; Franciscus always had a way of easing the tension off of people. One of the reasons he had been elected to head the church was that it helped him mediate among the many factions rife within the organization.

  With an unseen signal, two men appeared at the entrance of the room. They wore all black; the brooch of a skull was fixed to their breast, and a pendant of a sun hung around their necks. Both were symbols of power, the sun to be worshipped, the skull to be feared. The pair were inquisitors, called death dealers by the unwashed masses.

  Sebastian turned purple with fear; his eyes looked at Franciscus, desperate for a sign that they were here for him. He found none. Franciscus was already turned away, gazing out the wide opening that functioned as a shutterless window. "I'm sorry, son, but I'm afraid you saw something you were not supposed to."

  The man was dragged kicking and screaming out the door. Franciscus knew it was a futile effort; where would he go if he escaped the inquisitors' hands? He would still be stuck in the Santari Citadel, the base of power for the entire church.

  Franciscus poured himself a glass of spiced wine; he emptied it in one single gulp.

  "Damn," he cursed, "This is too diluted to get me drunk." It was for the best; he knew he didn't deserve to drink away his problems. It was his orders that killed the man, or would see him killed soon at the very least. The least he should do is suffer alongside his flock. Franciscus took a sheet of paper from a drawer in the desk, dipped his quill in the inkwell, and began to write his letters. One to Cardinal Pellio of Cardonia, another to Bacchius of Fresia, and a dozen others to the members of the council. The messages were simple but urgent summons; it would take weeks for them all to gather, longer even.

  A deep rumbling sounded throughout the room, and a wave of motion threw the Pope out of his seat; ink spilled from where the well had toppled over on the ground. Franciscus scrambled to his feet only to be thrown into the wall from a second shockwave; two more followed that one. Cracks formed in the white stone of the tower; chunks fell loose from the walls as if a hammer was beating on them.

  "Lord, Lord, where are you?" A young man ran into the room, frantic to ensure his lord's safety. The young man spotted Franciscus quickly and ran towards his lord.

  "Crunch." The sound of rock impacting human flesh was meaty and wet; the sight was much worse. Frozen in terror at having witnessed his apprentice of ten years crushed by a block of stone, Franciscus couldn't contain his terror. As the building fell to pieces around him, he prayed to the gods for aid, not abandon such a devout servant.

  No gods answered his prayer, for they had abandoned humanity; that was the thought of Pope Franciscus as the five hundredth floor of the Santari Cathedral collapsed around him.