The older monk stopped his muttering and raised his head.

“Eagles!” He pointed to the birds, black against the lurid sky, flapping with unhurried wing beats to perch on the crumbling arch of the crossing. “Another omen.”

The acolyte shook his head but the shadows hid the movement, and he dared not openly contradict. The moon hung in the still glowing sky, and by its light he watched more birds wing their way to the ruins. Not eagles. Ravens. And the omen was not a good one. He glanced at the older man’s ecstatic expression and knew that he had not seen the harbingers, or had not wanted to see.

“Now, to the altar,” the old man said, almost to himself and strode towards the apse. The acolyte wondered why the shadows seemed so dense, why he could not make out the shape of the altar. Perhaps it had been…