Today, Radiant City breathed a different air, like incense caught in a shifting wind. Novice saints, led by Cardinal Jericho, poured holy water to commoners and shopkeepers, silver drops beading like dew on cobblestone.

The Church rarely gave holy water in floods—only on high holy days or when invasion rumbled like thunder. This was the real distillate, the kind that scorched demons and banished shadow, not the snake oil hawked by street charlatans.

“Cardinal Jericho, may I—”

He heard an old voice and turned, quick as a startled bird. A stooped elder, a reed bent by years, came out on his grandchildren’s arms, bowed with trembling hands. Jericho caught him gently, like lifting a fragile cup.

“Mr. Fox, you marched in the holy war with the last Pope. You owe me no bow.” Jericho’s voice was winter sun through thin clouds; true or not, it warmed faces. The elder softened, and so did the young saints behind them.

“Cardinal Jericho, as a believer—if I recall right—today isn’t Advent Day, is it?”

“Of course not.” Jericho took the elder from the grandchildren, guided him into the shop, and seated him. A mild radiance flowed from his palm, candlelight over a fevered brow.

“Then have devils from Hell pushed into the world again? Or are the nations stirring like hornets?” The old man’s blood rose; an old warhorse pawed the ground. Jericho soothed him, holy light a warm blanket over brittle bones.

“No.” Jericho’s answer fell soft as dust.

“Then only one thing remains. The Church will judge a monstrous sinner, won’t it?” Excitement sparked in his eyes, a dry field catching.

Jericho smiled and held his tongue. The holy light stroked the elder’s chest, then went out quietly, a lamp in a windless room. The old man’s gaze lost its shine, and he sank into the sofa as if into sleep.

Jericho stepped out and spoke to the grandchildren in a voice like light rain. “As a guardian of the Holy City, he fought the sinner’s stain with his last breath. He’s cleared a measure of sin from our Radiant City and goes to Heaven under the Father’s blessing. Bathe him with holy water, and lay him to rest soon.”

They didn’t weep. Relief opened like a flower on their faces. “Grandpa entering Heaven under the Father’s blessing—what a grace.” “Yes, thank you, Cardinal Jericho.”

They bowed and went inside. Jericho turned to the saints with a brazier-bright smile. “Another guardian has gone to the Father’s side fighting sin. We take up his will. We keep fighting the sinners.”

Fervor flared in young eyes, twin fires of hatred for sin and longing to die for the Father.

“See it?” In the cell, Augustus stood with his arms folded and two guards by the door, a shadow at noon. He sneered at Aphelia, who watched the world through a narrow window like a caged bird. “Soon the whole Holy City will swarm with your enemies.”

Aphelia didn’t answer. She watched in silence, watched zealot feet drum the bright streets, wave after wave carrying a faith they called light, scattering radiance like chaff.

“How’s it feel to lose your strength, Aphelia?” Augustus’ voice grated like iron on stone. “That shackle was forged for you. At first you could still surge and tear it. Now your Arcane Power’s almost bled dry, isn’t it?”

She only smiled, a thin moon in a winter sky, and let his words fall. Her gaze slid back to the window, back to the blade-bright day.

“You look calm. Since you lack sense, I’ll tell you what your death means.” His breath worked like bellows. “Because of you, sinner, the Church is free of dispute. Radiant City overflows with the devout. Across the human realm, who can stop us?”

“At the low tiers, we have believers without number. Steep them in the power of faith, and they’re the best cannon fodder against any nation.” His teeth flashed like knives.

“At the high tiers, we have the Faithguard Knights and the Inquisition. Every chapel is an eye and an ear. With the right nudge, civil strife sprouts like weeds.”

“As for the top—no need to say more. The College of Cardinals, the ones you know best. So long as we don’t clash head-on with those freaks in the Mage Association, that force can erase a nation overnight.”

He strode up to her, painting a future like a mad sunrise. His face burned with the same fever as the faithful in the streets, a mirror of their zeal.

Aphelia watched his frenzy and grew still, a lake under frost. Her eyes hardened strip by strip, until they held only contempt.

He caught that ice-cold stare and shivered, a draft through a crypt. He fisted the collar of her habit and hoisted her off the ground.

“You dare look down on me? You, a chained sinner, dare look down on me?” His roar hit the stone like a hammer.

The slap landed heavy. Color bloomed on her cheek like a fresh brand. His forearm pressed into her throat and pinned her to the wall. His bulk blocked the guards’ line of sight, and their attention snagged like cloth on a nail.

“Judgment’s a day away. Look at you—no more than a crawling thing. I could crush you with two fingers.” His breath blew hot as forge air.

Even bound and breathless, Aphelia’s gaze didn’t waver. She looked at him the way one looks at a laid-out corpse, a chill that guttered torches.

The look spooked him. Fear wormed through his anger and doused half the fire. One guard stepped up and tapped his shoulder, a knuckle like a pebble on glass.

“Tch.” Augustus let go. He clicked his tongue and stepped back. He turned to leave with the guards, while Aphelia leaned on the wall, coughing, hauling air like a drowning woman breaking the surface.

“Truly… sick.” Her voice was flat as ash.

His heel paused at the threshold. The word stung like salt in a cut.

Even with her power shackled, Aphelia saw the veins rope up on his clenched fist. If he threw that punch, she might end the day dying on the floor.

He didn’t. Urged by the guard, he walked out and slammed the door with a shrug of force. The blow rang the cell like a bell, and the world swam.

The two guards showed no ripple. As long as Augustus didn’t kill her, he could torment her as he pleased, and they wouldn’t move.

Aphelia’s head spun. Weakness weighed her limbs like wet cloth. She leaned on the wall and said nothing. No one knew her thoughts—escape like a flicker of wind? Or the shape of her judgment like a blade over water?

“I heard it. You brutalized the sinner?” In a shadowed corner of the cathedral, Cardinal Jericho stood with his back to Augustus, studying a mural of the Father saving the world, eyes drinking the paint like wine.

His voice was warm and level, the murmur of an old river, a wise elder chatting in a courtyard.

To Augustus, it was cold as a hand on the neck. He approached, knelt, and bowed the head that had loomed over Aphelia like a storm. “Yes, but—”

“Enough. No need to explain. I don’t have time, and I don’t care to listen.” Jericho drank in the last of the mural and nodded, satisfied, his face misted with afterglow. He turned, patted Augustus on the shoulder, and passed with a snow-light smile.

“If I hear that again, end yourself.”

No weight rode the words. From his mouth, they fell plain and ordinary, like a bell struck at dusk.

Augustus, kneeling on one knee, broke into a cold sweat, as if someone pulled night over the sun.