Someone slipped a piece of paper, folded multiple times, under the door. Demitria picked it up and unfolded it. The handwriting on the letter was excessively neat, almost trembling in its precision.
"Most Honorable Scarlet Saint:
I sincerely apologize for disturbing your rest, but my comrades and I are in great distress and urgently need your guidance to clear the doubts in our hearts. You might have already guessed that it is the news of the Alliance and the Horde having taken Andorhal that has unsettled us. Does this mean there is no hope left for our resurgence in the Western Plaguelands? Or does it signify a larger shift in the overall situation? Our faith remains steadfast, but at this moment, all our long efforts seem suddenly futile. Did not the Holy Light already reveal that we are the only pure force qualified to cleanse Andorhal? We have worked so hard for so long, only to be denied the fruits of our labor, which has left some comrades deeply disheartened. You are the embodiment of the Scarlet Crusade's faith, our spiritual pillar. Could you, at this crucial moment, give us some revelation to strengthen us against our confusion? Of course, this is not a demand for prophecy. If you believe that Andorhal falling temporarily into the hands of the Alliance is beneficial to the future development of the Scarlet Crusade, please knock three times on the door. If you think the answer should be sought by ourselves, please knock five times."
Whoever wrote the letter—Demitia believed it was the result of multiple hands—did not give her the option of a negative response. Either the Alliance's occupation of Andorhal was a good thing, or she wouldn't answer. Demitria was familiar with this feeling. This is what they wanted from her.
She hadn't planned on responding. But as she burned the letter in the candle flame, watching the smoke rise slowly, she returned to the door and knocked three times. There was some commotion outside. The guards, evidently tortured by the delayed response, were finally invigorated by the simple three knocks. Demitria knew that soon, these three knocks—like three breaths, three heartbeats—would resonate among the soldiers who worshipped her, giving them strength, even if it was under misguided direction.
She gathered the ashes on another sheet of paper, rolled it into a crescent shape, and, holding it between two fingers, extended it beyond the iron bars, shaking it off. The ashes disappeared into the night wind, mingling with the fog. Ethenrion must not know of this letter's existence.
Perhaps Sally must not know either.
The day after Demitria received the title of Scarlet Saint at seventeen, she was invited to give a speech to the young Scarlet descendants. In that room, she first saw the then-eight-year-old Sally Whitemane. Sally was sitting on a desk, glaring at a boy with his head hanging down in front of her. The other children, regardless of gender, were almost all crowded behind her. The boy trembled under the dozens of staring eyes. Later, Demitria learned that she had witnessed a small trial: the boy in charge of cleaning had used a Scarlet battle flag as a makeshift trash bag. Under Sally's interrogation, he confessed his crime. If Demitria hadn't arrived in time, Sally might have announced the sentence.
Years later, Demitria asked Sally about the incident: "What sentence were you planning to give him?"
Sally laughed. "I hadn't decided yet."