"Please . . . spare this temple."

No answer. The fire began to burn the tapestries, and the heat became unbearable. Blood and ash had mixed, and were indistinguishable. The Dreamsmith had been right. The false prophet had been correct. The doom was upon them.

"Doom?" 

The High Priest jerked upwards, startled by the voice. Arrogant, mocking. But a voice nonetheless.

"Spare the temple." he whispered once more, not caring who spoke.

There was a rich laugh, and a man strode through the flames. He was tall, with an arrogant face, and a golden helmet. He wore a cloak the color of the sky before the storm, and he wore a Blade at his side. 

The Priest sighed in relief. A servant of Plot, to be sure. None other would carry such a Blade, one as strong as Crusade.

"Please, help me . . . Plot sent you . . . Help me."

The man laughed again. "I suppose Plot did send me. My name is Atreides. And I can help you in what you seek."

The High Priest's heart hammered in his chest. His prayer had been answered. Plot still remained. "Thank . . . thank you." he coughed, hacking up blood."

"I do demand a price, however." Atreides responded, his arrogant gaze drifting toward Zealot.

"Wha . . . what do you wish for?" the High Priest asked, a knot of fear settling in his stomach. Surely Plot would not take back his gift. Surely not.

"That Blade." Atreides gestured. "Zealot. For the temple."

Silence. For a moment, silence took the room, only broken by the crackling of flame.

This Temple was as old as the wind itself. It had seen war and famine, and now it was falling. The Blade . . . it was his most prized possession. His duty. But he had a duty to the Temple as well.

He sighed. 

"Very well." he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Spare the Temple."

Atreides nodded. "Surrender it to me."

The High Priest sighed. Zealot. he commanded. Serve Atreides. You are released from my service.

The Blade vanished from his side. Atreides' face split in a triumphant smile, as the Blade appeared in his right hand, glowing with red light.

"I thank you, High Priest of Plot. Your temple will be spared. You, however . . ."

The High Priest realized too late what was happening. In one fell movement Atreides had seized him by the throat and hoisted him up, his black glove in a deathly chokehold.

"I will keep my vow." he whispered, his mouth inches from the Priest's face, spitting his words. "This Blade will be invaluable to my Crusade. As for you . . . you have served your purpose.

The Priest coughed, trying to resist, but the strength seemed to have left his bones. He had no more power. Atreides tightened his grip, and the Priest felt his breath leave his lungs. All he could do was look into the eyes of Atreides, startling blue. There was nothing in them but hatred.

"Join your shattered god, old fool." he smiled, and hurled him against the wall.

The High Priest slammed into the stone, and felt the wall shatter beneath his weight. It had taken too much today, and Atreides' strength was beyond any mortal's. 

The wall groaned, and Atreides smiled one last time, raising a mocking salute. "I hope you realize, High Priest, that no god remains in the Thread. Except me."

Cracks formed in the wall as Atreides raised Zealot. "One final gift. A quick death. For your service."

He slammed Zealot into the stone. Fracture lines raced from the where the Blade had made contact and the entire room seemed to sink.

"You . . . traitor." The Priest muttered, his words slow in coming. His vision was tinged in red, and the darkness was closer than ever.

Atreides nodded, and vanished in a cloud of ash and smoke. The room seemed to shift once more. The cliffside is collapsing, some rational part of the Priest's brain thought sluggishly.

He blacked out for a moment, startled back into reality by free fall. Around him, rubble, ancient history, hurtled toward the ground hundreds of feet below. He lost consciousness again, and all he remembered was pain.

Pain. No pain matched his. Physical pain, but also the pain of failure. Everything had fallen thanks to him. Now he would die . . . 

He sunk into the darkness once more.

Then, faintly . . . he opened his eyes. He was still alive, laying, broken among the wreck. Barely alive.