Prologue

Rumbling. It was all that could be heard in the vast municipal hall. Made of stone and concrete, it could still not shelter out the drumming and banging outside. Kirill's beating heart was the only sound that could muffle out the chaos outside the building. As he wandered towards the great table in the middle of the hall, gunfire could be heard outside from rifles and heavy artillery pieces trumping out their roar. But to what avail? Is our fate already written? Kirill held a cross which was tied to a neckless around his neck. He closed his eyes and took a deep and shaky breath. The taste of gunpowder and a lukewarm metallic taste reminding of death tripled down his throat.

"All mighty God, I pray to you. Perhaps my last time, and although I have kept my faith in your silence. I beg of you to answer me, no… to answer my brethren, in our darkest hour."

Dust started to dwindle from the building's roof as a barrage of thunder could be heard and a handful of officers screaming their lungs out in the far distance.

"If Jaroslav falls, no more choke points can be held, my lord, hundreds and thousands of kilometres of stretched land will be exposed to the hell that awaits. Men, Women and children, all will fall to the hands of the sworn enemy. There must be an answer to all this advance?"

He opened his eyes again and felt the room grow colder as he clenched his hands into tight fists once more.

"Have I not served you well enough?! How much more blood must be spilt before you are satisfied?"

The great hall was dark and echoing, only lit up by a few lit candles at the table Kirill was praying. Feeling helpless, like in a dream where you can't move, fight or scream for the awaiting danger your sinister mind has cooked up.

"Even though we have defeated our foe many times and won hundreds of battles. The tide seems non-stop like a flood being held back by a bucket." His voice grew even louder.

He rose again, with anger and tears welling up inside him, fearing what was to come. He reached for a bible not far away on the table with his wrinkly hands, beginning to feel the years passed and the labour each finger had endured with time.

"We still have Moscow standing as a crown jewel in the way of the many horrors that seeks to bring an end to humanity."

Pebbles rained down now as a large explosion happened outside, followed by shouting and men marching.

"And, we do not stand alone; nations of man wish to put aside their differences under the cross. Perhaps the combined effort and ingenuity of the west could end this eternal shadow that has been haunting us for eight years."

He started to browse the bible's pages as enemy drums could be heard. He began to recite Corinthians 5:1-5. His legs felt weak, and he could have puked on the floor there and now. Yet he kept reading through his watery eyes. Midway through the verse, he stopped himself as he could hear the great cannon fall in silence. Yet men and more minor canons were still flying and whistling their resistance. He swallowed the tears and saliva that were choking his prayers.

"Tell me, gracious God, do we even stand a chance or is the deluge already decided? It seems that all efforts fade to what is to come." He felt a sudden pain across his arm, stretching further to his chest. Kirill struggled to breathe, fearing a heart attack was coming.

"Steel, gunpowder and faith is currently keeping humanity's flickering light alive. Although our rivals, the Catholic church musters the continents good and able men for what is to come."

The pain got worse, taking his breath away, followed by a ringing sound in his ears. He could feel his mouth moving, but it was not intentional. He looked back to his old hand and saw how pimples were growing on them like fungi sprouting from the ground.

"Yet, all of this effort is to no avail, the twisted ambition of Greed, the tempting pleasures of Lust, the Rage that ravages and the gluttonous Pride." The words came out of Kirill's mouth but were not his. He could only hear himself laugh, but it was not his laugh like his voice was mimicked, warped, controlled and made a slave. The pimples on his hands grew like thorns, and the pain that followed with it would have made him scream if he could have.

"The dark it is, against you it is, the eternal night that creeps closer. I am closer, Kirill."

It felt like his chest was about to explode from fear. The cannons outside were silent, and all that could be heard was the men firing their rifles in war screams alongside metal clinging. Kirill dotted his eye towards a chalice placed on the table. With the bit of control he had left, he lunged towards it and drank its contents. It felt like drinking pure gasoline the way it burnt through his body, yet it was only holy water. The pimples stopped growing, and he got control over his body. The pain was losing its grip on him, and he could feel a grieving rage well up inside him.

"How dare you, demon!? How dare you look down on us, for all it's accomplishments and creativity, we deserve existing more than your barbaric kind. GOD CHOSE US! Not you!"

He threw the goblet on the ground, dashing its small remaining contents on the floor with his shaky hands as conflicted panic gripped his heart, not knowing whether to break down and cry or shout in rage. The screams outside sounded less and less like war screams and more like the ordinary kind.

"I AM THE GREAT PATRIARCH OF THE RUSSIAN ORTHODOXY! I am a symbol of everything you go against, and I will not have you cast your damnation and fear upon me."

The blood was flowing, and he felt powerful, ready to die. At least knowing that he was no coward in his final moment.

"God is almighty and can only judge us, not you." The screams outside became fewer and fewer, and he could now hear how men ran towards the municipal entrance door—knocking and scratching like a cat begging its owner to let it inside. The small confidence Kirill had built was vanishing as he was frozen in horror. He could hear young boys in their teens, grown fathers, grandfathers, and even a couple of women screaming and banging on the door in horror. They were drafted to fight a war they could not evade, forced to leave the safety of their homes and families, begging for help and for him to open the door. Yet he dared not move a muscle, fearing what else he would let inside. The screaming and scratching suddenly got quiet. For the first time in days, complete silence was falling. No birds, no wind, no life, only his breathing. It felt like his eyes were about to pop from his guilt, picturing what could have happened on the other side of that big door—daring not to breathe out loud. The candles that gave light on the table and the room suddenly died out as a wind snapped their lives. Only darkness was there now. As Kirill currently was viewing absolute death in a living state. No sound, nothing to be seen. He was shaking in the dark, not even noticing that he had urinated himself while sitting duck for whatever was coming.

"Amen."