The Twice-blessed Paladin

Aldric descends the stone steps, the air growing colder with each step. The passage beneath the ruined chapel is not ancient—the walls are roughly carved, the stone still bearing fresh tool marks.

This place was made recently.

He grips his greatsword tightly, its black steel catching the faint glow of torchlight ahead.

The tunnel stretches into darkness, but along the walls, faint symbols pulse with a sickly green light.

Not holy inscriptions. Not arcane runes.

Something older. Something twisted.

Each step sends a whisper through his mind.

Not words. Just… presence.

"This place has been touched by something unnatural."

He moves forward, silent as a phantom.

The tunnel opens into a narrow hallway, doors carved into the walls like cells.

Faint chanting drifts from one of the rooms.

Aldric presses himself against the stone, listening.

Voices. Three, maybe four.

He peers through a crack in the door.

Inside, a group of initiates kneel in a circle, their robes shifting unnaturally, as if something beneath them is alive.

A single candle flickers at the center, its flame burning black.

Aldric does not hesitate.

He pushes the door open swiftly, stepping inside.

The cultists turn too late.

His blade swings low, severing the first one's legs at the knee.

The second tries to rise, but Aldric's boot slams into his chest, pinning him against the stone.

The third screeches, raising clawed hands.

Aldric lunges forward, impaling him through the chest before he can utter a spell.

The fourth staggers back, hands raised in surrender.

"Wait—!"

Aldric cuts him down without a word.

The room falls silent once more.

"They did not scream."

They never scream.

Aldric moves through the narrow tunnels, checking each room.

Most are empty, but a few contain disturbing signs.

Bloodied robes, folded neatly on stone tables.

Jars of black ichor, stored like fine wine.

Anatomical sketches of… things that are not human.

"This is more than a cult."

"This is preparation."

He moves to the next door.

He hears voices.

More than before.

He slowly pushes it open.

Inside, a dozen cultists are gathered.

These ones are different.

Their robes are thicker, wrapped tightly like exoskeletons.

Their hands are clawed, fingers twitching as though controlled by unseen strings.

And their eyes—black, bottomless pits—turn to him in eerie unison.

Aldric does not wait.

He lunges forward, sword flashing in the dim torchlight.

The first cultist raises an arm, and Aldric cleaves it from the elbow, sending black ichor spraying across the stone.

A second moves unnaturally fast, its feet barely touching the ground as it tries to flank him.

Aldric twists, bringing his blade in a deadly arc—the creature's head separates from its body before it can strike.

The rest attack all at once.

They do not fight like men.

They swarm.

Hands lash at his armor, clawing for any exposed flesh.

Aldric grits his teeth, shifting his stance.

His blade moves like a storm, severing limbs, splitting torsos, but still they do not stop.

One cultist manages to grab his arm, its touch sending a jolt of unnatural cold through his bones.

Aldric snarls and drives his gauntleted fist into its face, crushing its skull against the stone wall.

But there are too many.

One lunges, digging its claws into the gap between his plates.

Pain flares—not physical, but something deeper.

Like his very essence is being drained.

Aldric growls, calling upon his blessings.

Golden light flares from his body, a radiant explosion burning the cultist to ash.

But as the holy magic surges, so does something else.

A pulse of black energy, crackling from his bones, sending a shockwave of death outward.

The remaining cultists freeze, convulsing.

Their robes ripple, their faces stretching as if caught between two worlds.

Then, one by one, they collapse.

Their bodies shrivel into withered husks.

Aldric stands in the aftermath, his breathing steady, controlled.

"My holy and unholy blessings... they reacted against their magic."

"What were they trying to do to me?"

He shakes off the sensation.

Then he sees her.

At the far end of the room, bound in chains upon a stone slab, is a woman.

Her dress is torn, her skin pale and streaked with dried blood.

Her eyes snap open, filled with desperation.

"Please!" she screams. "Help me!"

Aldric rushes forward, slashing through the chains.

She collapses into his arms, trembling violently.

"They were going to—" She stops, looking past him.

Her eyes widen.

Aldric turns.

At the far wall, a door opens.

Beyond it, figures stand in waiting.

They are taller.

Their robes move as though breathing.

Their faces are half-human, half-something else.

And at the center, one does not move at all.

Aldric feels the air shift, the world grow heavier.

The creature smiles.

"You should not have come here, knight. This is a place of worship for us, The Veilborn. You are not welcome here."

Aldric tightens his grip on his sword.

"I go where I please."

The creature's eyes darken.

"Then you will die where you stand."

The cultists charge.

Aldric raises his sword.

And the real battle begins.