The Chosen
Chapter One
There can be no greater sacrifice for the greater good than this, I remind myself as the last bell tolls, and I pull open the wide oak doors to the nave.
All who reside within the Order, the Children of the Blessed, should be here. Our hours of worship are mandatory. They account for a large portion of our days. And now that the hour is upon us, it is time for me to act.
To commit to my greatest duty.
Little do they know the prayers they utter now will be the last to pass their lips.
I cross the threshold and close the doors behind me. After unwinding the thick chain from around my arm, I weave it through the heavy handles and secure the padlock, sealing the entrance and barring any escape. The metal settles with a final, echoing click.
Turning, I lift my head and face the room.
Across the way, another maiden dressed in similar garb, a dark red cloak bound at the waist with black rope, does the same. A third, mirroring us, stands beside her.
I do not know their identities. The mesh masks shield our faces.
But it doesn’t matter. From this moment forward, we are no one.
Nameless. Maidens of the Blessed. Our duty is to serve Him in a capacity that may not align with His design, but in time will right a great wrong.
Serving our creator is something we once shared with every sister in this room.
But no longer. The duty given to us by the Grand Minister now takes precedence.
He has called upon us few to carry out this task and rise above our sisters.
We nod as one before reaching over our shoulders and withdrawing the twin blades from our backs. The steel sings against the sheaths with a final, hissing whisper.
The sound draws attention.
A sea of calm dies as the seconds pass. The reverence, devotion, and sanctity filling the room slowly transform.
More sisters turn to see the disruption.
Alarm and panic spread like a contagious disease, beginning in the back rows and moving pew by pew until even those at the front cry out in warning.
A half dozen brave sisters rise and face us.
With determined steps, I stride forward, blades lowered but ready. I tighten my grip around the handles and roll my wrists, feeling the weight and balance of the steel.
My breaths are heavier than usual, but even and tempered. My mind is set to this task as I ignore the faces before me and think only of the days ahead.
Then it begins.
The edge of my blade slices diagonally across the first maiden’s chest. Blood blooms in a wide arc, splashing outward and hitting the wall, floor, and pew.
I force her name from my mind. To think it is to invite feeling, and what I do tonight, I do with a cold heart and calculated precision, serving a higher calling than that of these women now.
I made my decision earlier. My time for doubts has long passed. After prayer and meditation, I chose my service in this way over that of my sisters and our Order. Being His blade required absolute faith, and I believe—not only in the future, but in this new path he’s laid before me.
If I were, as Grand Minister Judiah said, selected in these last days to be a weapon, then stepping into this final role meant abandoning all thought of guilt.
So I feel not a shred of it as crimson spills down the first maiden’s frock.
The cut is deep, fatal, opening flesh from shoulder to hip.
Her cry of pain and outrage echoes up to the rafters of the monastery.
As she falls, maidens scream in horror and attempt to flee, pushing one another in their desperation to escape.
Betrayal becomes a song sung throughout the room as the other maidens and I cut down those closest to us.
Though unarmed, an older sister, ten years my senior, faces me.
She weaves out of range of my blade before it can make contact, meeting my onslaught with practiced precision.
She moves through her superior training in the art of combat, every step controlled, every motion deliberate.
A fruitless endeavor, but I respect her refusal to yield.
Some of her hits land true. Others I successfully dodge. When an opening presents itself, I don’t hesitate to move in for the kill.
Her blond hair is bound in a severe braid, as custom demands.
Memories of the years we’ve spent together try to invade my thoughts, but I force them to the back of my mind as my blade slices across her neck.
The braid is cut clean through and falls to the floor.
Her head does not. It jerks violently back as a river of red spills down her chest. Her knees buckle, and her body tumbles forward.
I turn and continue down the aisle. Not rapidly, since there is no need. Escaping us is not an option. So I hunt methodically and cut down any sister within reach.
In my periphery, I see one of the other Chosen doing the same. The third intercepts those who flee to the sides, attempting to avoid our path.
I had hoped Rayla, if no one else, would be the one mirroring my assault. But earlier she showed no sign of it. As the number of dead sisters rises, my doubt grows. I know her movements. We have been partners and opponents in training since we were children.
Neither of the other Chosen is her.
But it is not until I step over her lifeless body that it is confirmed.
She did not fall to my blade, but rather to my inability to communicate the secrets caged behind the steel walls of my mind.
Secrets gleaned from private lessons with Grand Minister Judiah, from studying divine text, from devout listening during sermons, and from my unwavering belief that the Good Book is not merely a written history of the ages of man, but a prophetic guide for The End of Days.
Rayla read the same texts. She sat beside me through every sermon. She studied as if her life depended on it, yet her heart ceases to beat while mine jackrabbits behind my rib cage.
The thought riots within me as I quicken my assault.
I allow the emotion in, but only to fuel my attack on those who remain, until it is done.
The quiet, when it finally comes, resonates. It is louder than the chaos, somehow. As if the dead haunt the silence.
I still hear their cries of betrayal and outrage in the back of my mind, and I suspect I will for some time.
Perhaps that is as it should be. Their screams serve as a sacred reminder of what I have sacrificed to prove myself worthy. This is only the first of many tasks asked of me. But in this, I have done my duty.
This is why we must not fail. Otherwise, all this spilled blood will be in vain. Ours. Theirs. And each of these deaths serves a higher purpose.
The two other maidens motion me toward them, ready to complete our task, reminding me that we are not done, and the hunt is to continue throughout the rest of the monastery.
There are close to a dozen living members of the Order still, ministers, and the eldest sisters who preside over us in one way or another.
Once we produce the keys and unlock the nave doors, we move through the tunnels and chambers, searching them out.
Before the night ends, they too will join our fallen sisters and be reunited with our Holy Redeemer.
Grand Minister Judiah stressed to each of us that, after today, it is imperative that we alone remain bearers of the truth learned here.
Only later did he seek me out in the privacy of my room and give me, and me alone, further instruction.
One final act I alone have committed to.
The other two Chosen do not yet realize my duplicity.
They are unaware of what I have done and what I will do to ensure my survival and success.
But by dawn, they will know. I will resume the hunt alone.
When I wake, I will scour the earth for the Harbingers of destruction, the demons on horseback who even now labor to bring the apocalypse foretold in the Good Book to fruition. And only when their blood stains my blades will I rest and meet the others.
After retrieving the sacred key from the lifeless form of Minister Alterre, we use it to unlock the curio cabinet in his private quarters.
Inside rests the chalice said to have been used by the Holy One at the Last Supper.
It is inscribed with ancient runes and sacred text, and when I take my turn to admire it, the metal hums with a living energy against my palm.
The sound pulses through my bones, deep and resonant, like a summons.
Below the monastery, the ancient passage waits.
And soon, I will descend and unravel its secrets.
Our three small lanterns light the way as we enter the catacombs beneath the monastery, where we bury our dead.
The weak glow casts long, trembling shadows along the narrow passageways.
Dozens of small alcoves house hand-built wooden coffins, stacked four high, each bearing a holy cross on the front-facing head.
Some of the recesses remain empty, waiting for more to fall to fate's hand, their dark mouths open and ready to receive the dead.
From there, we enter the Blessed Sanctum.
The chamber is vast, fashioned entirely of polished stone—floors, walls, pillars, and a sweeping arched ceiling that disappears into shadow.
The air is still and heavy, scented faintly of minerals and sacred oils.
Statues of angels stand guard around a large pool at the center, their stone faces worn smooth with age.
Within the crystal-clear waters rest the bones of those too small to occupy a coffin.
Pale forms lie layered beneath the surface, undisturbed.
Each day, our leaders pray over the waters as is ritual, blessing their spirits, and preserving the souls of innocent children to further protect them in the afterlife.
My heart lingers behind with them even as we move quickly along the edge of the chamber toward the tunnel beyond, careful not to disturb their eternal rest.
Telling myself it will not be my last visit to this place keeps my mind on the task at hand.
Minutes later, polished stone gives way to rough-hewn earth, the transition abrupt and jarring.
The walls appear clawed from the mountain itself, like they were shaped by unskilled or desperate hands.
Only crude markings scratched into the dirt remain to guide us, symbols we decipher with each turn.
The walls sweat with moisture. Dampness gathers and runs in slow trails, slickening the ground beneath our feet and making every step more treacherous than the last. The air grows colder, thicker, pressing against my lungs the deeper we descend into the heart of the mountain.
At intervals, the path breaks into primitively carved stairways that curl into parts unknown. Cold seeps through my boots and into my bones. My limbs grow stiff with it, my fingers numb, and unease coils tightly within me.
Should one of the maidens choose to strike me down here, I would struggle to draw my blades in such a confined space. Chilled as I am, my movements would be slow, my grip uncertain. So I remain poised for the slightest shift in intent, watchful and ready should either of them turn against me.
At last, we reach a massive archaic stone doorway.
The structure leans slightly, its right side slanting downward as if the old earth here has sought to reclaim it.
The threshold towers above us, large enough that a giant three times the height of any man could pass through without bowing.
We crane our necks and draw our lanterns close together to read the Aramaic script etched across the stone.
The moment the light touches the carvings, they begin to glow.
Not yellow, as though reflecting the flame, but a luminescent whitish-blue, as if embedded with slivers of blue crystals.
We translate the inscription to mean:
Ruin and death claim the unworthy who drink of God’s tears. The sacred waters of the immortals. For those with divine souls alone.
We do not heed the warning repeated in frantic succession at the end.
Turn back. Turn back. Turn back.
We cannot.
Our fate has been written, and our will is no longer our own.
The cavern beyond is black and damp. Moisture immediately settles over my cloak and skin. From the far reaches of the chamber, a massive light source spills outward, casting the same evanescent glow over the eerie cave walls.
As we move deeper, the dampness thickens into heavy mist, soaking us through within seconds.
The waters rest in a basin of black rock, dark and opaque, swirling as if formed from some clouded substance rather than liquid.
It dances and folds in on itself, slow and restless.
A thick, bubbling layer of foam gathers along the surface and clings to the edges of the small lake.
The air tastes metallic. Ancient.
As one, we drop to our knees.
Our cloaks cling to us as we bow forward and fall into prayer. In hushed, synchronized whispers, we recite the devotions of our Order, the same words spoken in sermons and repeated during the quiet stillness beside our beds each night.
God, Holy Redeemer, accept my devotion and hear my plea.
It is I, your child, kneeling in obedience, ready to serve your will and carry your glory into these final days.
Let your plan be made known to me, that I may labor without hesitation, study without question, and place my faith in you above all earthly things. Guide my steps, silence my doubts, and shape my thoughts into the design you have prepared.
I serve only you in this life.
May every act, every breath, bear witness to my loyalty.
I am yours—
to be used, molded, spent as you desire.
A tool. A vessel. Your devoted servant,
unto whatever end you decree.
Then together, as one, we lean forward to drink.
Though my lips brush the white and silver foam, I do not partake. The others do not know what I know. I have tasted these waters before, and what lies before us now is no longer pure. It has been altered… tainted by my own hand.
Another secret meant for me alone.
Only the unwavering are meant to awaken. Only one may rise.
I am she.
The Last Maiden of the Blessed.
The savior of mankind.
I alone will be the Grand Minister’s weapon as His judgment creeps ever nearer in the world above.