1063: Story 1063: Night of the Nameless Saints 1063: Story 1063: Night of the Nameless Saints There is no map to Sanctis Orbus—the lost monastery adrift in the Black Fog.
It drifts in and out of existence like a half-remembered prayer.
But on the Night of the Nameless Saints, it returns.
And it hungers.
The survivors of New Belfane called them saints, though their names were long stripped from record and their faces from time.
Holy figures once praised by a vanished order for cleansing the plague that once consumed the region.
But what they cleansed, they did not destroy—they entombed it.
And now, the tombs have opened.
At twilight, fog rolled through the valley.
Not mist.
Not smoke.
This fog spoke.
In whispers of dead scripture.
In voices that echoed from no mouths.
At the stroke of midnight, thirteen bells rang through the fog, though the town had no bell tower.
And the saints returned.
Clad in rotted robes and golden halos cracked and tarnished, they marched silently through the streets, leaving footprints that bled.
Hollow eyes beneath ceremonial masks.
Sacred wounds that wept black ichor.
Their staffs hummed with arcane resonance as they exorcised the living—not of demons, but of flesh.
Those they touched turned to statues of ash.
Those who prayed were gifted eternal silence.
Those who ran… well, they didn’t get far.
Evael, a blind orphan who could see auras, was the first to understand: These were not saints.
These were avatars of penance, used by an eldritch god to reclaim the promise of old: that all flesh would fall before the sacred rot.
She watched as they gathered at the heart of town, around the Grieving Angel statue—the final resting place of their monastery’s hidden relic: a reliquary containing the Thirteenth Soul—the one that had never died.
The soul screamed.
It had screamed for centuries.
Tonight, it was going to be born again.
Evael, guided by visions from the fractured veil, confronted the saints with a stolen artifact: a candle lit by the last true cleric of the order, its flame infused with sanctified sorrow.
The flame revealed their true forms: not men, not spirits, but sinewed voids wrapped in borrowed faith.
She wept as she cast the candle into the open reliquary.
The scream stopped.
The saints crumbled.
The fog thinned.
But the candle’s flame didn’t go out.
It danced.
It laughed.
The Thirteenth Soul was not destroyed—only unshackled.
Now free to walk without hosts.
Without chains.
Without names.
By morning, the town was silent.
Statues of ash lined the streets, their faces frozen in prayer.
Evael was gone.
Only her shadow remained.
And etched into every door, a new scripture:
THE SAINTS REMEMBER THOSE WHO FORGET.