Brother Tacitus's staff stopped clicking against the stone. "Karasmai... That's a name I haven't heard spoken aloud in a long time."

  Clive glanced around, confirming the templars ahead remained out of earshot. He lowered his voice. "I heard the Devil was a former church father. Perhaps that might explain the precise targeting you mentioned."

  "Ah yes, Father Karasmai." Tacitus resumed walking, but at a slower pace. "I've heard that rumor as well. Slender evidence, if you ask me. Father Karasmai was an upright member of the clergy. Perhaps too upright. He led the conservative faction for nearly a decade. Hard to believe such a man would embrace darkness so completely."

  "It's just a rumor then?" Clive asked. Fake news was something he was too familiar with in his old world. He'd watched rumors destroy his reputation at Maxwell & Rhodes, seen how quickly speculation became accepted fact when it served the right people's interests. The whole he said she said. It was a total circus, and he hated it.

  "Hard to say,” Tacitus replied. “Father Karasmai vanished five years ago. One morning, his chambers were empty, his ceremonial robes left folded on the bed. No note, no explanation. The reformists whisper he fled in disgrace. They claim he was embezzling from the temple coffers, and even worse. That he'd been practicing forbidden arts in the cathedral's lower chambers."

  "And the conservatives?"

  "They insist he was murdered. Silenced for opposing the new doctrines." The old priest's voice dropped further. "The timing was... convenient for certain parties. His disappearance cleared the way for significant changes in church policy."

  "What kind of changes?"

  "Reforms that Karasmai had blocked for years. New interpretations of scripture. Relaxed restrictions on traditions. The younger clergy embraced these changes, but many of the old guard..." Tacitus shook his head. "They claimed the church was losing its way."

  Clive processed this. Political intrigue within the church wasn't something he'd considered, though it shouldn't have surprised him. Even in his old world, religious institutions had been riddled with power struggles. He'd seen enough scandals on the evening news to know that putting humans in charge of divine authority rarely ended cleanly.

  "Did you know him personally?"

  Tacitus was quiet for several steps. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of old grief. "Karasmai taught me when I was a novice. Stern man, but fair. He believed in absolute adherence to doctrine. No exceptions, no interpretations. 'The Light's truth needs no embellishment,' he used to say." The priest paused. "If he truly has become what they claim... the irony is almost too bitter to bear."

  "What do you mean?"

  "A man who devoted his life to fighting corruption, becoming the very thing he opposed? It would break something fundamental in a person like Karasmai. He saw the world in absolutes—pure light or absolute darkness, with nothing between. Perhaps that rigid thinking made him more vulnerable to falling completely once he started to slip."

  Clive thought of the stone curse victims he'd seen, their faces frozen in expressions of terror and despair. How did such a devout man turn out this way? "Do you think he chose this path?"

  "That's what keeps me awake at night." The old priest's knuckles showed white where they gripped his staff. "Because if Karasmai, who knew our doctrines better than anyone, could be turned so completely, what does that say about the rest of us? What corruptions might we carry that we don't even recognize?"

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Clive walked in silence for a moment, watching the templars ahead adjust their formation around a bend in the road. "Maybe that's the problem," he said finally. "People who think they're incorruptible usually are the most vulnerable. They stop looking for their own blind spots."

  "In my experience, the people who cause the most damage are the ones who never question their own motives."

  "Perhaps," Tacitus replied, though the terseness in his answer suggested the conversation had ventured into territory he wasn't prepared to explore further. The old priest's pace quickened slightly, and Clive recognized the subtle retreat of someone who'd heard more truth than they were comfortable with.

  They passed through the town and into the main town square. Word of the procession had spread quickly. Townsfolk gathered along the streets, pressing forward despite the templars' attempts to maintain formation.

  "Saintess!" A woman pushed through the crowd, her hand outstretched. "Bless my daughter, she's been coughing blood for weeks."

  "Please, just touch her hand," called an elderly man, supporting a young woman whose skin bore the sign of disease. "The healers say there's nothing they can do."

  More voices joined the chorus, each carrying its own desperate plea. Parents lifted children above the crowd. The sick were carried forward on makeshift stretchers. Clive watched the Saintess's expression remain serene, but he noticed the slight tension in her shoulders.

  "Saintess, where are you going?" A merchant stepped directly into their path, forcing the lead templars to halt.

  "Is there war?" another voice called out, this one tinged with the fear that came from seeing too many armed men in one place. "Are we under attack?"

  The crowd pressed closer, and Clive could feel the energy shifting from hope to anxiety. These people had lived under the shadow of the stone curse for too long. Any deviation from routine sparked immediate panic.

  Before the Saintess could respond, a woman near the front of the crowd pointed directly at Clive. "Wait—that's him! That's the painter who saved my sister!"

  The crowd's attention shifted like a breaking wave. Suddenly, dozens of eyes were fixed on Clive, and the whispers started again with renewed intensity.

  "The miracle healer!"

  "He brought back Elena from full stone!"

  "My neighbor saw him cure three people in one afternoon!"

  A baker pushed forward. "Sir, please—my wife is turning gray around her fingertips. Could you—"

  "The stone touched my boy's arm yesterday," another voice called out. "Just a small patch, but it's spreading!"

  The Saintess turned to observe the crowd's shift toward Clive, and for just a moment, her serene mask slipped. Her lips pressed together in a thin line, and the fingers on her staff tightened. The look lasted only a heartbeat before the practiced serenity returned, but Clive's [Artist's Eye] had caught it clearly.

  The Saintess raised her hand, and the murmuring crowd fell silent. When she spoke, her voice carried easily across the gathered faces.

  "I am taking a walk with my companions," she said with a casual grace. "When I return, all will be well."

  The simplicity of it was masterful. No mention of battles or dangers, no promises that might prove false if things went wrong. No one would believe that the Saintess was merely taking a walk. But her nonchalant delivery transformed an obvious lie into reassuring confidence.

  Once past the town gate, the paved road gave way to packed earth and the sounds of the crowd faded behind them. The Saintess allowed the formation to spread out slightly before falling back from her position at the front.

  When she reached Clive's side, she leaned in close enough that her voice wouldn't carry to the templars ahead. "You're quite popular," she whispered. The words came out light and teasing, but Clive caught the edge underneath.

  He glanced at her profile, but she kept her attention on the road, avoiding his eyes.

  "I didn't ask for the attention," he said quietly.

  "Few do. But yet it comes to us all the same. This is the burden we must bear.”

  The grandiose phrasing struck him as almost comical. Here was the Saintess, blessed by divine power and revered by thousands, complaining about popularity like a celebrity tired of paparazzi. Even saints, it seemed, were not immune to wounded pride.

  When the shepherd becomes the wolf, who will guard the flock?

  —Parables of the Lost, Father Tacitus