The Chaplain of the Black Diamond #1
Prologue: The Rift at Saint’s Anvil
Salt encrusted the chapel’s wind-worn stone, clinging like memory to a grave. The wind rattled the stained glass in the north wall, its saints half-obscured by sea spray. Below the promontory, waves slammed the jagged rocks of Saint’s Anvil—a weathered outcrop that once held a temple to pagan sea-priests. Now, built atop the same bones, stood a Catholic chapel of stone and slate, low-ceilinged and solid, hunched like a monk in a storm.
They said it was the only church in the world built from the ruins of a pirate fortress.
Elias didn’t care for irony.
He smoothed the folds of his robe—borrowed, too stiff across the shoulders—and stepped through the carved archway into the nave.
Around him stood a crowd of wanderers and watchers. Monks. Pilgrims. A few wary fisherfolk. One or two mercenaries too quiet for comfort. The air smelled of ash, salt, and wet wool.
And at the front, impossible to ignore, stood the pirates.
His parents.
The Gift
They didn’t dress it up. No disguises, no false humility. His father still wore his blade—peace-bonded, but present—and his mother’s coat flashed rows of foreign coins sewn into the lining. Their boots had salt crust in the seams. Their hands bore rings, none of which had ever been bought.
Captain and First Mate once of the Rising Mercy. Feared across three seas. Hushed in tavern songs. Scrawled into bounty lists. Now standing like awkward guests at their son’s ordination.
Beside them stood Rygar—weathered, grizzled, unmistakably a sailor, but with eyes that still held a glint of warmth. He wasn’t blood, but he’d sailed with Elias’ parents since before Elias could walk. Godfather, friend, and sometime fence.
They looked at Elias with something close to reverence. Or hope.
That made it worse.
The Rite
The chapel filled with chant. Latin echoed off damp stone as the small choir sang. Candles flickered in brass sconces. The bishop stepped forward.
Elias knelt on the cold stone floor, hands folded.
Bishop Olric dipped his fingers in the oil and anointed Elias’ palms.
“By this anointing,” he murmured, “be sealed for the work of Christ. May your hands bless, not bleed. May your voice speak peace into storm.”
Oil touched Elias’ palms. The chrism burned like sunlight.
The prayers ended. The bells rang.
A priest rose.
And the pirates clapped.
The Fallout
Afterward, the crowd drifted toward the side chapel for bread and broth. But his parents stepped forward instead.
His mother’s voice, usually edged like sailcloth under tension, softened.
“You made it, love. You did it. We thought—well, we brought something. For… the new path.”
His father held a velvet-wrapped object. He unwrapped it carefully, like exposing a wound.
The chalice shimmered gold. Sea-gold. Melted doubloons, forged into a wide bowl with a stem of twisted coral and etchings that shimmered like waves in sunlight. A single line of Latin shimmered around the lip:
Quod sanguine datur, gratia redit.
What is given in blood returns with grace.
Elias didn’t speak.
His father offered it, both hands open.
“We stole for years, son. But this—this we made. For you.”
The Rift
He didn’t remember stepping back. Only the words came, sharp and cold.
“I don’t want your blood money.”
The wind dropped.
The crowd stilled.
“You think engraving a prayer on stolen gold makes it holy?”
Elias’ voice cracked.
“You can’t buy grace. Not with coin. Not with sentiment. I don’t want it.”
His mother’s mouth trembled. She tried to speak—couldn’t. His father lowered the chalice.
Rygar whispered, “Elias—”
“I renounce it,” Elias snapped. “And everything it stands for.”
He turned. Walked away from the altar. From them.
Behind him, the chalice hit the ground with a muted thud, soft as a coffin lid closing.
The Devil Appears
That night, he sat outside the chapel, alone on a bench slick with mist. The moon hung crooked above the sea, pale and thin.
He wanted to pray. He couldn’t.
The fog came too fast—like breath on a mirror, then thicker, heavier, pressing in.
It swallowed the path, the chapel, the sea. Cold, but not empty. Alive.
Footsteps behind him.
A figure emerged—impeccably dressed. Tall, elegant, dark coat lined with crimson. The man’s eyes gleamed with depthless calm.
Not a man. Not really.
“Elias,” he said. “You cast them out. So I offered them a place.”
Malphas. The name struck Elias’ heart before his ears.
“I gave them a second chance. You gave them your judgment. They asked for your blessing. You gave them your back.”
Behind him, Elias’ parents stood. Pale. Still. Holding the chalice between them like an urn.
“They chose my mercy when yours ran dry. Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
He tried to run. Couldn’t move. Tried to cry out. No sound.
He reached out—
And touched fog.
They vanished.
The Oath
By dawn, the chapel lay in ruins. No blood, no corpses—only ash at the altar and glass shattered in frozen shapes.
Rygar sat on the chapel steps, a cut on his brow and a tremor in his hand.
“They’re gone,” Elias said.
Rygar looked at him. Not angry. Just tired.
“You didn’t lose them for being holy,” he said. “You lost them for being proud.”
Elias collapsed to his knees.
Salt wind stung his face.
“Then I’ll find them,” he whispered. “Even if I have to go through Hell.”
The Final Image
Far on the horizon, a familiar silhouette cut across the morning light. Black sails trimmed in silver. No flag. No fanfare.
The Black Diamond—Rygar’s ship. The same ship that once carried Elias’ family into storm.
And now waited to carry Elias into fire.
A voice on the wind—half memory, half promise.
“Come find us.”
Elias stood.
And followed the sound.
End of part 1. Come back tomorrow for part 2!
There's a reason they call pride the first deadly sin.
The good lord paid the ultimate price for our grace.
I can't wait to see where this goes.
I loved this! It’s right up my alley, and full of wonder and excitement. I’m eagerly waiting for pt. 2!