Deep underground, where light does not reach, lies a great abbey—a church buried beneath the crust of the world. Here, the Sisters of the Cloth live in quiet devotion, far from the war raging above.

  The year is 2068, a forlorn age. Radios hum with static and sorrow, their broadcasts filled with troop movements and the growing shadow of the Purity.

  "A large contingent of Purist forces crossed the Rhine today. The Panzer Corps slowed them, even destroyed several of their advanced arms, but they’ll reach the gates of France by dawn."

  A group of nuns huddles around the aging radio. Each word from the speaker weighs heavy on their hearts. Silence follows the report like a held breath.

  Sister Petruce, tall and sharp-featured, finally speaks.

  “God help us all… That army seems unstoppable. First Japan, then Russia, then Mongolia, Kazakhstan, Pakistan, and most of Eastern Europe… gone in five years. Erased. And now they're on our doorstep. I hear they do unspeakable things to the people they capture…”

  Before she can continue, the Mother Superior slaps her lightly across the back of the head.

  “I will not have the devil’s doubt spreading in this convent,” she snaps. “Yes, our situation is dire. But God does not abandon His people. Revelation will come, and the Antichrist—the Great Genius—will be cast into Gehenna for his trespass.”

  A small voice rises from the back of the room.

  Chevelle, a quiet nun with blonde braids and pale eyes, has sat silently in the corner until now.

  “But… he’s been missing, hasn’t he?” she asks softly. “The Great Genius—and God. I… I don’t feel Him watching anymore, Mother. The world feels cold. And sad. Why must we sit and watch?”

  Her voice trembles. Sorrow lives in her words. The other nuns look away, unsure of what to say.

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  The Mother Superior walks to the girl and places a firm, gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “Do not despair, dear Chevelle. You are safe in the house of God, surrounded by your sisters. Come… let me remind you of something.”

  She leads her down into the abbey’s museum, where relics of saints and martyrs are kept safe in glass and stone. There, under a dim amber light, rests a long, ancient spear mounted behind glass.

  “You remember this story, don’t you?” she asks.

  Chevelle, eyes still damp, nods.

  “The Lance of Saint George. Ascalon. The one he used to slay the dragon.”

  The Mother Superior returns the nod, her gaze warm but weary.

  “Yes. And even in his darkest hours, did the knight give up? Did he fear God had turned away? No. He took up his weapon and rode into fire and death, until the evil beast was no more.”

  Chevelle stares at the spear as if it might speak. Her fear quiets—for now.

  That night, Chevelle dreams.

  She walks alone in the void of space, surrounded by drifting stars. Before her stands a figure—a silhouette of something not quite light, not quite shadow. A contradiction made flesh.

  It has no face. No limbs. Yet it watches her.

  “You well there, young Chevelle Le Roux?” it asks.

  Its voice is heavy, ageless. Not cruel—but burdened.

  Chevelle takes a step forward, her bare feet brushing against the illusion of ground.

  “Who are you?” she whispers.

  “That doesn’t matter,” the Entity replies. “What matters is this: in three hours, your enemies will launch a surprise attack on Paris. Tell the Mother Superior. Have the message delivered to the Allied Command. If you do, you might yet save your nation. You might even slow the carnage.”

  “But… who are—” she begins to ask again.

  But the dream shatters.

  Chevelle jolts awake. Her body moves before her mind can catch up.

  She runs to the Mother Superior’s chambers and pounds on the door.

  “Mother Superior!” she cries.

  The old woman opens the door, fastening her glasses, frowning in concern.

  “What is it, Chevelle?”

  “I… I’ve heard the voice of God. The enemy is at our gates!”

  The Mother Superior stares at her for a long moment. Her face twists into something ancient and pained.

  “Merde,” she mutters under her breath. “Why did you pick her, of all people?”

  Her hands tremble—but she nods.

  Without a word, she takes Chevelle to the dormitories and helps her dress in a formal habit. Then, she leads her to the Abbey’s elevator—an old machine once meant for clergy supply lines but now sealed tight against the world above.

  She places a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  “You’re going to see the outside world for the first time, my dear Chevelle. I’m sorry for the fate you must face now. I cannot protect you any longer.”

  The doors begin to close. The cold gears grind. Chevelle steps inside, heart thudding along with the mother superior who is doing her best to hold back tears as the elevator revs into motion and makes its way to the surface.