Millis was the capital of religion, the center of religious authority on the entire continent. The city was fully subordinated to the High Council and did not answer to any secular states.
Leadership was carried out by two High Pontiffs, elected for life from among the elders.
During the Demon War, Millis was taken by Laplace's army. The walls were breached in three places, the internal defenses collapsed. Within a day, the city was fully occupied.
All civilian population was exterminated. The beastfolk tribes that followed Laplace's army carried out a massacre. Women were killed immediately or handed over for execution.
Children were thrown from bridges. The elderly were burned alive in church courtyards. Altars were destroyed, sacred texts publicly burned. The archbishop's head was paraded through the central square on a pike. His remains lay in the streets for weeks.
After the victory, the city was rebuilt exactly according to the original plans. Every building was reconstructed in the same place and in the same form. Any deviations from the original layout were forbidden. The walls were reinforced, and the temple quarters were fully cleared of later additions. No elements that did not belong to the original structure were permitted.
The day of Laplace's death is the main post-religious holiday across all territory controlled by the Church. It is observed annually, according to the lunar calendar, on the day the demon army was finally defeated and Laplace's body destroyed. In Church chronology, this day is marked as Finis Umbrae — "The End of Shadow."
Hostility toward beastfolk remains strong in Millis. Historically, they are associated with Laplace's army: it was the beastfolk tribes that first entered the city after the walls fell, took part in the mass slaughter of civilians, and looted the temples. Church records place primary blame on the beastfolk for desecrating altars, torturing clergy, and defiling sacred sites.
After Laplace's fall, individual clans continued launching scattered raids on the empire's borders, including attacks on religious caravans and missionary settlements. This reinforced the image of the beastfolk as external enemies acting not out of political strategy, but by nature.
For obvious reasons, members of beastfolk races are not permitted to serve as clergy, may not enter temples, and are barred from admission to Millis academies. Their presence in the city is allowed only with special permission and is strictly limited in both duration and permitted movement routes.
***
The day was overcast.
The sky stretched low, an even gray sheet without a break. The light was dull and diffused; it highlighted nothing—no rooflines, no shadows under the eaves.
The tiles darkened with moisture. Water pooled on the slopes, gathering in thin streaks. Towers rose behind the houses—straight, windowless, with rounded tops. Walkways ran between them, strung at the height of the third floor.
Below were the streets. The stone beneath the feet was smooth, with pale inclusions in places. Along the walls stood crates and carts covered with heavy cloth. Ropes hung from balconies, with dark, damp sheets drying on them.
The temple facades stood close to one another. The stone was bleached to a light gray, the edges of the blocks finely polished. Between the buildings lay a shadow—still, unmoving. At the base were ledges—knee-high—with people sitting on them, cloaked.
Bas-reliefs ran along the wall, from the arch to the corner. They depicted figures: some bowed, others held vessels, and some had arms outstretched. The faces were long, with eyes closed. Not a single inscription.
The carriage moved slowly. The wheels were rimmed with metal, the hubs gleamed despite the mud. The canopy arched above, covered in dark leather, fringed along the edges. The suspension was soft—the carriage rode smoothly, almost silently.
The horses were large. Their coats were sleek, tails trimmed, harness polished to a shine. Bronze medallions hung from their muzzles, embossed straps around their necks. Their breath came heavy, in short bursts of steam.
The driver sat on the box. He wore a heavy cloak to the heels, collar raised, eyes behind dark glasses. His hands were gloved, boots dusted freshly. He didn't turn his head, only tugged the reins from time to time.
The carriage approached the temple. People on the road stepped aside. Some bowed. Others did not. No one looked into the window.
The carriage stopped at the foot of the temple. A crest gleamed on the side panel—roses and a sword engulfed in righteous flame, outlined by a thin line, without excess curls. The metal had darkened in the grooves, the rose petals deep red.
The driver jumped down. Walked to the door, unlatched the lock, held it open.
"Please, my lady," he said quietly.
A girl stepped out. Around twelve years old. Soft shoes with a strap, a cloak with narrow embroidery along the edge. She glanced over the steps. The walls. The faces at the entrance. Her movements were unhurried.
A young woman came out of the temple. Her steps were heavy. Her back straight. One foot after the other. Light armor glinted. The straps were pulled tight. On her chest—the sigil of a Church Sentinel. She didn't look around. Her fingers were clenched, hair tucked under a dark hood. A helmet hung at her hip.
The girl didn't notice her right away. She stood, staring at the stone near the entrance. Gazed upward until a voice called to her from above.
"Zenith," the girl said. "Over there. To the stone. Crack your forehead on it, then you can come in."
She stood on the top step, staring down without looking away. A faint smirk played on her lips. The wind caught her light hair, tossed it back over her shoulder. Her boots were crusted with dried mud. One hand rested on her hip.
"Teresa!" Zenith broke into a step but halted. She threw up her arms, froze.
The hem of her dress dragged across the stone. She yanked it sharply, smoothed the fabric. Straightened her back. Her face turned serious.
She stepped forward, preparing to bow as she'd been taught.
The smack came first. Dull. Precise. No swing—meant not to hurt, but to sink in. Zenith flinched. Her shoulders tightened. She staggered half a step back.
"Ow!"
"This isn't a royal reception," Teresa snorted. She didn't move, only her lips twitched. "Though the way you act, I'm half expecting a servant to crawl out of your sleeve."
Zenith shot her a look. Her face stretched, lips twisting.
"Wouldn't hurt you either. Want to carry my bag?"
Teresa stepped down the stairs. Slowly, her boots crunching. As she passed, she bumped Zenith with her shoulder.
"I'll carry it," she tossed over her shoulder. "You, by the ears, if you start whining."
Teresa walked ahead. The bag swung behind her. The strap kept slipping, but she didn't adjust it. Her back was straight. Her steps measured, right down the center of the path. The stone beneath was dry, slightly rough. Zenith followed just off to the side.
"Well, how's home?" Teresa asked. Her voice was even, calm. Her eyes flicked sideways—as if, just over her shoulder at the edge of the steps, their mother might be standing.
Zenith frowned slightly. Her chin dropped.
"Well... quiet," she exhaled.
Teresa snorted, shrugged, didn't slow her pace.
"That bad? So either she went into meditation, or someone's dead and they haven't found the body yet."
Zenith glanced at the wall to her right. The stone was smooth, with black veins running between the slabs.
"She said everything's on me now."
"Hah... So now you go around with a ruler, checking dust on the moldings and praying the candle burns evenly?"
"...And you're walking around with a sword, but still afraid of Mother."
"People don't fear her out of weakness. It's called having a brain."
Teresa glanced back slightly. The corner of her mouth twitched up. Sunlight flashed on the buckle at her belt. The glint slid across Zenith's cheek.
"Before she left, she said if I screw up, no one will even think I'm her daughter..." Zenith went on.
"Hm... Progress. In my case, I was promised a beating to death so the name wouldn't carry on by accident."
Zenith looked down. The hem of her dress caught on a step. She lifted it without stopping. Teresa was already climbing toward the arch, her steps dull and echoing. It was getting colder. The temple was close.
"By the way, you'll be met by Priest Ovenius," Teresa said without looking back.
She was still walking ahead. The stone grew darker underfoot, the air heavier, the smells shifting—wet limestone, soot, incense soaked into the walls. To the left, the arch appeared, its shadow stretching across the path. Zenith stepped into it nearly in sync with Teresa, her gaze drifting up the carvings above the entrance.
"Is he… strict?" she asked, more quietly than before. Her voice sounded worn down, like it had been scraped slightly by the damp air.
Teresa turned her head slightly but didn't look back.
"Well, one boy once mixed up the pages in the psalter. He's been afraid of the dark ever since and talks to the sanctuary lamps."
Zenith raised her eyebrows.
"You're lying."
"Of course," Teresa replied easily.
They walked a few steps in silence. Their footsteps echoed dully from the walls, as if the temple had already heard them coming.
"Though once, he did punish a student. Made her scrub the chapel until dawn. Bare hands. Lye and everything. They say now her hands always smell like incense… oh, and she scrubs floors in a brothel."
Zenith shot her a look.
"You're messing with me."
"Of course," Teresa said again without blinking. "But he really is strange. Eyes like a fish. Always smiles when someone cries. A true servant of the Light."
Zenith faltered half a step, then caught up. The hem of her dress hit a step—she yanked it up, her fist tightening around the fabric.
"But don't shake like that. He's not fond of girls…"
She blinked.
"What?.."
"I said—relax. He's not the kind to sniff novices' hair. More the type to eye boys who forgot to wear pants."
"Teresa!"
"What? Just being helpful. He's a saint, sure, but when he bows—it's always toward the young men."
"That's nonsense."
"Of course. But maybe it'll help you stop clutching your dress like a bride at confession..."
Zenith looked at her hand. Let go of the fabric, ran her palm along the seam, as if checking it hadn't wrinkled.
"You're awful."
"And you're about to be a priestess. Better remember who's supposed to feel shame around here."
The temple doors were open.
Zenith stepped inside—and froze. The space grew quieter. Heavier. Cooler. The air pressed on her shoulders, seeped into her skin. The stone smelled of moisture and smoke, as if the floors had just been washed and the lamps lit right after. Her nose twitched. Smoke and wax. It stung faintly in her throat.
The flames in the lamps didn't flicker. They stood still. That stillness made her want to blink.
Boys and girls entered one after another. Most walked in silence. Some exchanged glances. A few looked back. Someone whispered a prayer nearby. Someone's fingers trembled.
Zenith paused at the threshold. Breathed in. Pulled in her shoulders. Took a step.
Teresa didn't stop—walked on to the side passage, gave a nod.
"That way, to the line," she murmured.
Zenith nodded and headed toward the group.
Girls stood at the front—dark dresses, hair neatly tied. A little farther back, boys in white shirts and short cloaks. One held a prayer book. Another walked with moving lips. Around ten people in all.
The line barely moved.
In the quiet, there were whispers, a sigh here and there. From deep inside the hall, a voice stretched out. A church voice, echoing in Zenith's chest with a flat rhythm. The words blurred. Only the cadence remained.
The line shifted. Zenith stepped forward.
Her fingers clenched in her sleeve. Breathing grew harder. The air pressed against her chest.
A shuffle ahead—someone took a step, then another.
Zenith moved her foot, careful not to catch the hem. The sleeve twitched. She let it go sharply and dropped her gaze again.
A cough behind her. She flinched—it felt too close. The line moved again.
Zenith stepped forward. Her legs felt heavier. The first step came. The second was shorter. On the third, she stumbled. Didn't trip. But didn't stop where she meant to.
The priest didn't look up. He simply ran his quill silently across the page.
Zenith inhaled and leaned forward slightly.
"Zenit ex domo Latrea." Her voice trembled, but she didn't stop.
The priest raised his head. His eyes passed over her face without lingering. He spoke in Church Latin—clearly, without emphasis, as if reciting something for the hundredth time.
"Quis est Dominus tuus?"
(Who is your Lord?)
Zenith didn't hesitate.
"Millis, Filius et Creator lucis."
(Millis, Son and Creator of Light.)
He nodded, his expression unchanged.
"Quid est peccatum?"
(What is sin?)
"Separatio a voluntate Dei."
(Separation from the will of God.)
For a brief moment, the quill paused. Then it resumed, gliding over the parchment.
"Ad quid vocaris?"
(To what are you called?)
"Ad servitium et silentium."
(To service and silence.)
The priest glanced aside and made a small gesture—forward. Zenith understood she could go. Her fingers were trembling less. Her back stayed straight. She stepped forward.
Long tables lined the hall. Other boys and girls in robes as fine as hers were already seated.
There was space closer to the center. The parchment lay flat. The ink had settled into the lines.
Her fingers still shook, but her thoughts were clear. The questions covered fundamentals—the Church's structure, symbols, days of service.
Zenith answered without pause. Her handwriting was neat. Her movements—precise. The silence in the hall helped her focus.
The hardest questions touched on theology. The phrasing was exact, without hints, leaving no room for guesses—only knowledge.
Zenith faltered on none. Pages, dates, invocation formulas surfaced in her mind. And behind them—her mother's voice: steady, stern.
The scars on her wrists ached. Not from pain—from memory. Every mistake had cost her a blow. No leniency, not once. Claire never cared whether she was teaching a daughter or a student. Only the result mattered.
Several hours passed. The light in the hall softened; the lamps burned steadily. Some still wrote, others sat with empty hands, staring at parchment.
When her name was called, Zenith already knew the outcome. She rose calmly.
The parchment was marked evenly, without corrections. No notes in the margins, no crossed-out words.
Flawless. As it was supposed to be.
Zenith came from House Latrea—an old line closely tied to the Church.
By Church law, Latin was taught only in clerical seminaries and only to those who had completed the initiation rite. But for families like the Latreas, exceptions applied.
Zenith began her studies at age six. Her lessons included the foundations of Church Latin, the structure of festivals and ranks, articles of doctrine, and correspondence with theological commentary.
She was educated at home, under the supervision of her mother, Claire. The tutors were handpicked—approved by the chapter, chosen at her discretion.
Every mistake was recorded. Some earned punishment. The marks on Zenith's wrists remained to this day.
Everything concerning prayer, formulas, interpretations, chapters from Corpus Veritatis—she memorized by heart.
By now, her language proficiency matched that of an initiated cleric.
And that preparation showed.
Zenith passed every stage without a single blot. No delays, no corrections. No examiner leaned over her papers. No extra questions.
By the end of the first selection, she ranked among the top group—children of the Church's elite. No surprise. No joy. It was exactly as it should be. Everything required had been drilled into her years ago. Because she was different. And now she was among her equals.