The light was captivating and alluring at first glance: a brilliant, searing white, something that seemed to tug at the head and draw one’s eyes to it. It was after a heartbeat that Rictor recognised it for what it was, the same energy that he always summoned and expelled with Judgment Blade, the Cleansing Strike, Divine Ruination: sheer Holy, unbridled and unfettered as if from the eye of Faram itself.
And it burned.
“Look away!” Rictor yelled as the light poured out, searing, sizzling, blinding. It had scored a deep gouge in his arm, flesh singeing before the three men stumbled and managed to replace the lid, immediately curtailing the boiling magic as if a switch had been flipped. Their surroundings were now dark once more, the ruins no longer lit by that unnatural white. His heart was hammering in his chest like an anvil, fear—and understanding—now beating in equal measure.
Now they knew what had killed the men. When Rictor eventually started walking again, it was slow and hesitant, careful with each step lest they trip again; he lifted his boots high to step over the old corpses, leaving them behind in the dust. His hands practically seemed to sting from where he touched the poles, self-consciously and painfully aware of the power they now held.
It needed to get back to the Grande Cathedral. There was now no question about it in his mind. Who best to safeguard this but the Pharist church?