The waters of the Rhoyne lapped weakly against the riverbank.
Wave after wave of white foam rushed forward, only to vanish upon the shore.
Dozens of drenched figures struggled desperately to climb onto land. Almost every one of them wore crimson robes.
Only hours earlier, they had been the proud Red Priests of Volantis.
Now they looked like drowned rats.
Several priests strained together to drag a single man ashore.
Some hooked their arms beneath his shoulders and pulled. Others pushed against his waist from behind.
It was as though they were trying to move a massive stone.
"High Priest! Hold on! We're safe now!"
Benerro's consciousness was fading.
Only sheer will kept him awake.
The tremendous loss of blood had left his body ice-cold, and after spending so long immersed in the river, he could no longer feel his limbs.
His legs felt like two dead fish.
Five Valyrian steel arrows remained embedded beneath his ribs and in his abdomen.
Each wound greedily devoured what little life remained within him.
At last, they reached dry land.
Moqorro turned to the surviving Red Priests.
"Gather firewood! Hurry!"
The priests who had escaped with him were utterly exhausted, but none dared ignore his command.
About fifteen minutes later, they returned carrying armfuls of firewood.
Moqorro pointed a finger toward the pile.
A flicker of flame emerged from his fingertip.
Ordinarily, igniting a fire with flame magic would have been effortless. But now his strength was nearly gone.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't manage it.
In desperation, he thrust his own hand into the pile of kindling. Golden flames flickered among the wood, but refused to catch.
He tried again.
And again.
Only after the unmistakable smell of scorched flesh filled the air did the wood finally ignite.
Moqorro removed Benerro's soaked outer robe.
Together with the others, he carried him as close to the fire as possible, using the heat to warm his freezing body.
The remaining priests gathered even more wood and hastily erected a crude campsite.
Once everything was finished, none of them had any strength left.
Their eyelids drooped.
Their arms and legs felt like lead.
They were so exhausted they could have fallen asleep the instant they closed their eyes.
Moqorro ordered several priests to watch over Benerro while he personally stood guard.
"So sleepy..."
He slowly patrolled the area, but his eyelids refused to stay open.
When he glanced back, he found Red Priests sprawled across the camp, asleep everywhere he looked.
"You useless fools!"
Instinctively, Moqorro bent down to pick up a stone, intending to throw it at them.
But he was so utterly drained that he could not even summon the energy to feel angry.
The moment he stood upright with the stone in hand, darkness swallowed his vision.
He collapsed unconscious.
.....
Moqorro felt his body rising.
Higher.
Higher.
Still higher.
When he finally regained awareness, he found himself standing in a vast white desert.
Above him stretched a crimson sky.
"W-Where is this?"
He scanned his surroundings warily, unable to remember how he had arrived.
Then it came back to him.
"The High Priest!"
Following his memories, Moqorro hurried forward. Soon he found a crowd of equally bewildered Red Priests.
"High Priest!"
To his delight, Benerro had already sat upright.
Even more astonishing, the man's complexion was no longer deathly pale. Instead, he looked remarkably vigorous.
"High Priest!"
"Moqorro."
"My lord, where are we? Weren't we beside the Rhoyne?"
Like a loyal hound, Moqorro rushed to Benerro's side while nervously surveying their surroundings.
Benerro offered no answer. Because he himself had none.
White sand.
Red sky.
"An illusion?"
He scooped up a handful of sand, feeling the cool grains slip through his fingers.
He could not imagine what sort of sorcerer possessed the power to create such a convincing illusion.
Just then, a voice echoed across the heavens.
"My followers."
Every Red Priest, including Benerro, immediately tensed.
"High Priest..."
"Quiet."
Benerro silenced Moqorro with a whisper. The younger man instantly obeyed.
"My... followers..."
The voice came again.
This time, everyone heard it clearly.
"I am your master, the Lord of Light... R'hllor."
Despite the introduction, Benerro remained cautious.
He had spent countless years praying within the Temple of the Lord of Light. Never once had he encountered the god he worshipped.
Now, suddenly, a mysterious being claimed to be R'hllor himself.
By nature, Benerro was not someone who accepted such claims without question.
"Look east."
"Look to the east."
The voice echoed once more.
Benerro and the other Red Priests turned together.
A magnificent crimson temple had appeared upon the eastern horizon.
Its height alone surpassed the Temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis by at least fivefold.
Its sheer scale was perhaps twenty times greater.
Compared to this divine structure, the Volantene temple resembled nothing more than a peasant's hut beside a king's castle.
"You are all my followers."
"From among you, I shall choose thirteen to become my apostles."
The moment those words faded, crimson light burst from Benerro's chest.
The wounds where the Valyrian steel arrows had pierced him healed at astonishing speed.
The arrowheads slipped free from his flesh and clattered to the ground.
"What..."
He stared at his hands.
Not a single trace of injury remained.
If moments earlier he had been ninety percent certain that the mysterious voice was an impostor...
Now that certainty had fallen to fifty.
"High Priest!"
Moqorro cried out in alarm.
Benerro realized his body had begun floating into the air.
No matter how hard he struggled, he could not resist the invisible force carrying him toward the crimson temple.
One of the apostles?
He recalled the voice's earlier declaration.
Slowly, he stopped resisting altogether.
Almost immediately, he began soaring through the air like a kite caught in a powerful wind.
The Red Priests who had entered this strange realm with him raced after him.
Moqorro chased the hardest of all, stumbling and falling repeatedly. His devotion deeply moved Benerro.
But there was nothing he could do.
He flew faster.
And faster.
Soon, the pursuing priests could no longer keep up.
Since resistance was futile, Benerro completely relaxed.
As the magnificent temple drew ever nearer, anticipation welled up inside him.
Yes.
Only a place like this deserved to be called the Temple of the Lord of Light.
Before long, he noticed more crimson streaks soaring toward the temple. Counting carefully, he found twelve others.
"So... thirteen apostles after all."
Benerro realized that he and his followers were not the only ones brought into this mysterious realm.
He took several deep breaths, composing himself.
If he was about to meet the other apostles, he intended to greet them with the dignity befitting a High Priest.
Then he looked down at his robes. They were tattered and ragged, leaving him looking thoroughly miserable.
There was nothing he could do.
Even if that voice truly belonged to the Lord of Light, surely the god had no obligation to provide him with a fresh robe.
Moments later, Benerro floated high above the temple.
The structure beneath him was colossal beyond imagination.
But what shocked him most were the thirteen crimson pyramids rising within the temple complex.
The mysterious force guided every crimson streak toward the summit of one of those pyramids.
___________
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