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  Temple Church | River Thames | City 06

  51°30′28.50″ N

  000°06′22.46″ W

  The double bronze doors swung inward on well-oiled hinges.

  They parted soundlessly, ancient ingress to a waking throne-room.

  Cold air and candle smoke greeted the Harbingers as they stepped into the Church proper.

  The air is sterile, clean.

  Oil and scented incense.

  A man awaited them—broad-shouldered, middle-aged, salt-and-pepper beard, armor scored from a lifetime of campaigns.

  A great two-handed sword hung across his back, its iron edge glassy and black.

  Behind him stood twelve armored Templars in formation, their helms seamless and obsidian, visors swallowing the light.

  Adam raised a hand.

  The Harbingers halted as one.

  A moment of silence hung between them.

  Reverent, expectant.

  Then the veteran stepped forward and opened his arms.

  “Brothers,” the Master-at-Arms greeted, voice deep as stone.

  Adam’s expression softened.

  They clasped wrists, forearm to forearm.

  “Or must I call thee my lord now?” Duncan said with a dry smile.

  “Please, Master Duncan,” Adam replied, his lips split into a genuine smile, “ever shalt I be, your student.”

  “Humility remains thy greatest virtue,” Duncan mused, returning the smile.

  “A virtue you never cease to instil,” the second Harbinger added.

  “And which I pray hath taken root,” he replied.

  Zora removed her helm, revealing a blond woman with sharp feature with crystal blue-eyes.

  A killer’s poise wrapped in beauty.

  “Beautiful and deadly as ever,” Duncan remarked, as Zora came forward and embraced her mentor.

  When they parted, Duncan held her at arm-length. “Look at you. a Harbinger.”

  “You forged us well, Master,” she replied.

  “I am proud of you,” he whispered, tone softening, “you brought great honor to Temple Church.”

  Zora grinned.

  “How far you both had come,” Duncan regarded Adam and Zora, “Faithful. Aspirants. Knights of the Black Lily. Now Harbingers. Our chapter stands honored.”

  “The honor is ours, masters,” Adam and Zora bowed, “thy devotion and conviction, ever our example.”

  Duncan chuckled. “Enough flattery.”

  He turned to the third Harbinger, and nodded.

  The man inclined his head but kept his helm on.

  “You will remove your helm before Master Duncan,” Adam rumbled, his voice low.

  But Duncan waved it away, “if a man wish his face veiled, no hand of mine shalt compel otherwise.”

  The Master-at-Arms turned to the remaining Harbinger.

  “Lord Duncan,” The man said as he removed his helm, “Gabriel, Order of the Penitent Blade - thy servant. We fought together in the Liberation of City Thirty-Four.”

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  “The honor is mine, Harbinger.” Duncan replied, as decorum demanded, “City Thirty-Four – a hard-won victory. You bring honor to the Penitent Blades.”

  Gabriel bowed deeply.

  Duncan stepped back and raised his voice.

  “Templars! Behold the Harbingers, as foretold!”

  Gauntleted fists struck breastplates in thunderous unison.

  “As foretold,” they intoned. “Harbingers—we salute thee.”

  “And we, you, brothers all.” Adam replied as the Harbingers retuned the salute.

  “Come. We shall pray,” Duncan gestured inward. “Then, we shall break bread together."

  “Lead on, Master.” Adam said.

  They moved first, through the vaulted halls.

  Nine towering slabs of polished voidglass, black, flawless, unadorned.

  The surface reflected only torchlight and steel.

  Within the crystal depths, faint sigils drifted like constellations trapped beneath frozen seas.

  Nine panels.

  Nine icons.

  Each insignia shimmered beneath the glass, neither etched nor painted.

  But suspended, within the glass itself.

  Impossibly precise. shaped of stellar light.

  “Come, brothers,” Duncan said as he knelt before the central slab, “join me in the oath of moment.”

  The Templars knelt before the panels in solemn silence.

  They pressed gauntleted hands to the smooth, unbroken surface.

  Not in worship, but in oath.

  Duncan recited the oath.

  Adam and the Harbingers followed suit, their oath echoing softly throughout the hall.

  When they are finished, they stood.

  As Adam was standing up, his eyes fell upon the slab.

  The patterns shifted subtly.

  Angles changing with perspective, ever-changing.

  The icon crawled before his eyes.

  Adam averted his gaze.

  The scented of incense and fragrance oil drifted to him.

  He looked again.

  The icon, wrought within the voidglass, stared back at him.

  A play upon the eyes. Adam thought, smiling.

  Clever, these artisans.

  “My lord?” Gabriel called.

  Adam quickened his pace.

  The mess hall beyond was sparse.

  Its walls were unadorned, sparse and bare.

  Ancient cobblestone replacing velvet carpets.

  Their greaves ring resounded upon them.

  A long oaken table dominated the chamber, polished but unadorned, its grain dark and heavy.

  Adam recalled accounts of pristine tree felled in the Old World.

  A time of abundance, and plenty.

  Today, its worth eclipsed the décor of the chapel itself.

  The serfs had laid the table.

  The fare was plain.

  A wicker basket of day-old bread.

  A block of sharp cheese, wrapped in cloth.

  Thin stew, steaming still, in an iron pot.

  Bottle of red wine, stripped of labels.

  Adam approved.

  Food meant for soldiers, not nobles.

  Duncan took his seat first; only then did the Harbingers sit.

  Helms were removed. Breath fogged faintly in the chill air.

  A short prayer. A bowed head. A shared Amen.

  They ate in silence, tearing bread with gauntleted hands, each bite small and efficient.

  They ate heartily, knowing they will need their strength.

  Fuel for the journey ahead.

  Duncan broke the quiet.

  “Simple fare,” he said, lifting his cup. “We keep the excess for the war-tithes.”

  “It suffices,” Zora remarked.

  Adam nodded.

  He expected no less.

  The Church fed its warriors just enough to fight.

  And fed the faithful just enough to hope.

  He shrugged at the thought.

  “I trust those wretched faithful gave thee no trouble?” he asked.

  “We were awaited,” Zora replied.

  “Her Eminence were not known for her… discretion,” Duncan smiled indulgingly.

  “Unwise,” the third Harbinger muttered. “Secrecy would serve us better.”

  Adam snapped him a look.

  Silence.

  Then Duncan chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “He speaks.” The Master-at-Arm said, leaning in.

  “Sparingly,” Gabriel chirped in, “but nonetheless, wise beyond his age.”

  “Good looking too,” Zora added, draining her cup before helping herself to more.

  “But not sound of mind,” Adam cut in.

  “A Harbinger,” Duncan said evenly, “by strength of arms alone.”

  “Our best warrior,” Adam conceded, nodding.

  The Master-at-Arm regarded the man.

  Piercing eyes. Strong jaw. Patrician face. Shoulder-length black eyes.

  “Would you grace us with a name, brother?” Duncan asked gently.

  “I do not remember, lord.” The man said.

  “Ah, I see.” The Master-at-Arm nodded sagely. “scars of wars.”

  “Perhaps,” Gabriel said as he clasped his brother, “but acute battle instincts.”

  “Aye, brother. Acute instincts, but a loose tongue!” Duncan laughed, “Speak thus of Her Eminence only within these walls, not before Her!”

  Laughter rippled faintly.

  The man managed a smile.

  Adam drained his cup.

  Zora said nothing.

  “Come, brother! We jest.” Gabriel said reassuringly. “Within these halls, we may speak freely.”

  The third only nodded.

  A moment of silence.

  “Master, forgive me. Nothing would please me more to regale you with our deeds,” Adam said as he set down his cup. “But time is of the essence.”

  “Of course.” Duncan stood. “Come.”

  They followed him down a dim corridor.

  Past benches long abandoned.

  Past candles burned to stubs.

  They passed back through the main hall and descended a flight of circular, stone stairs.

  The air thickened.

  The stone turned colder, the chill permanented their garb.

  Adam and Zora exchanged a glance.

  In all their years training within Temple Church, they had never been taken this way.

  But Duncan led them on, his strides sure.

  He walked as one accustomed to coming this way.

  The stonework shifted subtly as they descended.

  As they pressed on, the masonry gave way to smooth plain, stone.

  Seams vanishing, walls smoothed by generations of passing hands.

  As he walked, Adam felt the weight of the earth pressing down on him.

  The air felt heavy and expectant.

  Incense thinned, replaced by the cold, mineral smell of deep stone.

  Moisture clung low to the floor in shallow wisps.

  Condensation from older foundations meeting the chill night air.

  Mist gathered swirling at their boots, cold and patient.

  Adam and his Harbingers followed in silent.

  They soon reached a circular chamber.

  The floor bore a metal dais.

  Square, seamless, fused with the stone.

  An elevator. Leading down.

  Duncan removed his gauntlet and pressed his open palm to the biometric scanner.

  The elevators doors hissed open.