The smell of sulfur and brimstone surrounded Kyrillos. He looked around him and saw the ashes of the ever living, skin tattered and shredded like burnt papyrus. The flames enveloped him, and he was on fire. He collapsed to the sooty ground, and curled up as though he was a fetus. Kyrillos cried for help, but no one came. The tears were vaporized before they even rolled off his cheeks, and his eyes burned. This was hell; this was oblivion...

Kyrillos walked past Bootham Bar, and entered the city. He was on his was to the Abbey of St. Martin when he saw a familiar sight. It was the bathhouse he had seen before. He ignored this and walked towards the church building...

Kyrillos held a man in his arms, a cavalier of Kyrillos' line. His head had been smashed open, and the fluids dripped down Kyrillos' lamellar, the blood staining his armor. The man gurgled gently, and Kyrillos stroked the blood spattered hair on the top of the fallen soldier's head. The body twitched suddenly, and the man took his last breath. He was dead.

Kyrillos awoke at the gate to the Abbey of St. Martin. His tattered cloak fluttered about him as he entered the house of god. A nun came up to him to welcome him, but he just placed an index finger to her mouth, and walked past her. He approached the usher and asked, "Is Father Gildas in?"

"He is in his quarters, I do not believe he is taking visitors at-"

"Thank you," Kyrillos interjected, and walked towards the corner stairs of the abbey. He approached a nun, and requested politely, "Can you tell Father Gildas that he has a visitor?"

There was much rejoicing on the surface, but Kyrillos was not there to enjoy it. He was trapped in a wooden box, buried deep in the Earth's soil. He is running out of air, and has to escape. The coffin had cracked inward from the weight of the soil, and was starting to buckle towards his chest. He held his breath, and moved his tied hands over his neck. Kyrillos punched at the wooden box, but to no effect. He tried again, but was met by several splinters in his knuckles...

One of the nuns stood before Gildas in the evening gloom, holding a candle that had almost burnt out it's wick. Her face held concern, and he might have been touched had he not been so annoyed. "Yes?" he repeated. "What is it child?"

"My lord," she began. "We have a visitor as of this eve. Once they heard you were here, they requested to see you. It is quite..."

"Enough," said a voice from the darkness behind the nun. "We are already acquainted." The visitor stepped past the nun and entered the room to stand in front of Gildas.

The monk was about to snap off a scathing tirade about manners and the abuse of hospitality, when he realised who it was. "Oh... my goodness..." he murmured in disbelief.

Kyrillos smiled at him from his hood, and closed the door behind him. He had met Gildas previously on his pilgramage. Gildas crossed himself, and asked, "Why is it that you have come here?"

Kyrillos smiled. He licked his lips uncontrollably, and let out a laugh that was not his own. His eyes flashed unnaturally, and he pulled back his hood. Gildas gasped. Kyrillos' skin had become covered in scales since the last time he had seen him, and his face was an uncomforable white.

"The dawn star has come. If it sets in the west, then it will be the dawn of the new kingdom, and we are all doomed."

Gildas raised an eyebrow at this, but was unable to respond. Kyrillos collapsed unexpectedly to the ground. The monk carefully approached Kyrillos' now uncosncious body, and checked for circulation. The Greek was still alive, but only barely. His body burnt with fire, but he could see the skin tremble. He was clearly unwell.

"Sister! Sister!" shouted Gildas. "I need your help!"