Chapter Text
Klaus slammed the door of his residence shut, pulling his dark coat tight around his thin, clammy frame. Whatever thoughts he’d had of his father were swept away by the bite of cold crawling through his garments and straight into his bones.
Klaus had stepped directly into the jaws of an approaching storm. Rolling grey clouds churned above the rooftops, carried by a restless wind that tugged at the worn-down community homes. Distant lightning crackled, bright and sharp against the gloom.
He set off down the narrow footpath. The click of his shoes vanished under the low thunder that rumbled through the earth. The wind shoved at him, nearly tearing his hat off. He palmed it firmly against his head and trudged on, nodding at neighbors who braced themselves against the gale as they also made their way to the meeting.
At last, the great hall rose through the haze—its towering pillars and stained glass windows a beacon in the darkness. A large clock hung above the entrance, ticking steadily.
As Klaus admired the stark grandeur of the building, the first drops of rain tapped at his skin. Then more. And more—until a sudden downpour forced him to wrench open the heavy oak doors and slip inside with a flood of familiar faces right behind him.
Wind hammered at the windows. Rain roared overhead. Klaus helped the children hang their dripping cloaks before removing his own rain-soaked coat and hat. He had just shaken out the water from his hair when a warm voice greeted him.
“Evening, Klaus.”
He spun around, eyes brightening at the sight of his closet companion, William Price.
“William!” Klaus laughed softly, stepping forward. William was nearly his opposite in every way: shorter by a few inches, sandy-blonde hair, skin sun-kissed by days spent in fields. “Dreadful weather. I pray it didn’t give you too much trouble getting here.”
The pair moved along with the stream of people entering the wide meeting hall. Long rows of dark wooden pews carved neat lines across the room, leaving narrow aisles that forced Klaus to shuffle behind William. The wooden floor gleamed, and deep red curtains draped the corners of a large stage on the furthest wall of the hall, untouched by dust.
They settled into their usual seats, slightly left of the center of the stage. Klaus glanced at William and vaguely noticed the chandelier light glinting warmly off his friend’s thick golden locks. It reminded him of sunlit afternoons—spring grass, clear skies… A faint smile tugged at his lips.
Klaus had always envied William’s appearance. Too often he’d been mocked for his own ghostlike pale skin, shoulder-length dark hair, and narrow frame.
His whole family shared those traits—Mary especially, though her features were softer, smaller, almost delicate.
His mother had been slightly different. Her hair had been a lighter brown, but she’d had the same pale complexion and those startling blue eyes.
And his father…
He’d lost count of how many times people said Klaus looked exactly like him. He hated the idea, though he couldn’t deny the resemblance.
He was his father’s mirror—physically, at least. Never in spirit.
Movement on the stage snapped Klaus out of his thoughts. A man stepped out from behind the curtains—a middle-aged figure with a cane and a measured stride.
Instantly, the murmurs died as the crowd straightened.
Klaus inhaled sharply.
The Leader.
Close enough to touch.
He’d always found it strange that no one knew the man’s true name. “Leader” was fitting for his status, yes—but the mystery surrounding him had always unsettled Klaus in ways he couldn’t voice.
The Leader raised a hand. Silence deepened.
“My children,” he began, smiling in a way that never reached his steel-grey eyes. “As you know, I suffered from a grave sickness. But the gods have shown mercy. I stand before you stronger than ever, ready to continue as the voice of our almighty lords. I have done all I could for you, my disciples. I pray you will remain faithful to me… and to the church.”
He lowered his hand. “Rise. Before you leave tonight, you will drink from the Glass of Starbound. One sip. No more, no less. Defiance will be punished.” His voice softened, dangerous in its calm. “Let us begin.”
He unfurled a scroll with careful, deliberate hands.
“Annabel Smith.”
A timid woman suddenly rose several rows behind Klaus. The click of her shoes against the polished wood echoed through the hushed hall as she approached. The Leader beckoned her closer, then withdrew a beautiful silver flask and a matching goblet from the folds of his robe.
The liquid he poured was cloudy and grey—like the murky water left after scrubbing worn clothing. Klaus grimaced at the sight.
Annabel accepted the goblet with trembling fingers. After a long pause, she lifted it to her lips, took the single required sip, and stiffened as The Leader snatched it back. She bowed quickly before hurrying offstage and out of sight.
“Next,” he called. “Alexander Smith.”
And so it went. One name after another. Adults, children, elderly members. Each approached with caution, drank, and vanished through the exit.
When William’s name was called, he rose with quiet reluctance. Klaus wondered whether William had felt the same cold dread that gripped him.
After William’s sip, he gave Klaus a small, wordless wave before stepping off the stage and disappearing into the entrance hall.
A few more were called. With each name, Klaus felt his chest tighten, breath catching a little shorter each time.
Then:
“Klaus Burington!”
His name ricocheted off the pristine walls. For a moment, he froze. Then he forced himself upright, aware of dozens of eyes pinned to him.
His shoes sounded far too loud as he hurried down the aisle. He winced at each sharp click.
One step up. Another. And another—until he stood only feet from the man he had been raised to revere.
The Leader had always been a constant. A teacher. A prophet. Klaus felt a tangled mix of awe and gratitude coil in his chest. He and Mary had been raised in this place—raised on this man’s words. His mother had brought them here. His father had stood at these very meetings. This hall was more familiar than home.
The Leader extended the goblet. Klaus accepted it with steady hands. Inside the cloudy liquid were tiny flecks of white—like crushed herbs or ground bone. He wasn’t sure. He swallowed his questions, just as he had been taught.
Cool metal touched his lips. The strange mixture slid across his tongue—sweet, unnervingly sweet—and he forced it down in one swallow.
He returned the goblet to The Leader. Without a word, he stepped off the stage and walked toward the exit as another name was called behind him.
He shut the door.
Silence.
The door groaned shut behind Klaus as he stepped into his dim, chilly house. The storm still snarled outside, rattling the windowpanes and sweeping dust across the floorboards.
He hung his coat beside Mary’s own and brushed a hand down his damp hair, trying to settle himself. The lingering sweetness of the strange liquid still clung faintly to his tongue.
Klaus had only taken a few creaky steps towards the bedroom when a sharp rap sounded at the front door.
He froze. Why would someone visit during such a harsh storm?
Perhaps William? He sometimes visited at odd hours of the day. Klaus recalled memories of himself shivering in a lightly dirt ridden nightshirt, apprehensively welcoming his freezing friend into his home.
"Mother kicked me out for the night," William had explained.
Another knock.
Curiosity pushed him forward. Klaus creeped towards the door, and rested a hand against the cool brass doorknob. For a moment he listened. The hiss of rain and the groan of the roof above answered.
He opened the door.
The Leader stood on the threshold.
Rain streaked off the black fabric of his cloak, gathering in rivulets at his boots. His cane pressed into the slightly flooded ground, and unsettling eyes fixed immediately on Klaus. Klaus's voice came out thin.
“S-sir? You… you’ve come a long way in this weather…”
The Leader stepped inside without waiting for an invitation.
“I do what must be done,” he said simply, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His tone was unreadable. “Where is she?” He said suddenly.
Klaus blinked. “She…?”
“The girl,” The Leader said. “Mary.”
Klaus swallowed hard. “She’s tending to our mother, sir. She’s been... well, ill is an understatement. Her condition is getting worse every-.”
“Ah.”
The Leader’s expression didn’t change. He glanced down the short hall toward the bedroom, as though he could see straight through the wood. “So I was correct.”
“Correct about what?”
“That she has not been attending the last three meetings.” The Leader turned his gaze back, and Klaus stiffened instinctively. “I assumed her absence was one of defiance.”
“N-no. Never, sir, ” Klaus said quickly. “She would never defy the church, or you. She’s only been busy with Mother. She barely sleeps."
The Leader walked farther into the small home. “You two are loyal,” he said quietly. “You were raised well. Your mother made sure of that.” He paused. “But loyalty is tested, Mr. Burington. And three absences… three… is a dangerous number.”
Klaus felt a sudden chill run up his spine. “I understand, sir. She’ll return as soon as our mother is stable.”
The Leader stood before him—so close Klaus could feel his breath. He lowered his voice. “You will tell her,” he murmured, but the whisper still held authority in every syllable, “that compassion does not excuse neglecting her duties. The gods expect obedience. I expect obedience. And when one forgets their place..."
"Pain is often the only reminder that sticks.”
Klaus’s breath hitched.
“Sir… Mary’s only been trying to help—” A gloved hand rose, silencing him instantly.
“This is not punishment,” The Leader said softly, “if she corrects herself. But if she fails again…” He sighed, “Then I will correct her.”
Klaus's stomach dropped. He forced himself to nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
The Leader reached for the door, pulling it open. Wind roared back into the house, and droplets of water hit the floorboards. He paused on the threshold and looked over his shoulder. “And Klaus?”
Klaus straightened up. “…Yes?”
“See that you do not follow her example.”
With that, he stepped into the storm and disappeared into a curtain of rain.