The Church did not move quickly.
It moved carefully.
Slowly.
Like stone remembering that it could walk.
The cathedral at the heart of the city was always imposing even when nothing was wrong. Towers climbed like proclamations. Marble floors caught light and whispered importance. Bells slept high above, waiting to be rung not in joy nor grief…
…but in warning.
Tonight, the bells remained silent.
But the air around them felt like breath being held.
Inside the upper chambers, robed clergy gathered. Gold trim glittered. Candlelight flickered against polished judgment. Old men and younger ambitious ones spoke softly, voices pitched just low enough to pretend calm while fear bit at the edges of their tone.
They discussed rumors.
The kind that had weight.
Not "miracles" guided by Church sanction.
Not "blessings" processed through ritual and authority.
Wishes.
Granted beyond their reach. Granted without their blessing. Granted without them.
That was what made them afraid.
Not the divine.
The loss of control.
"…people are whispering—"
"…testimonies of change… unexplained intervention…"
"…blasphemous, unstructured hope—"
"…this undermines doctrine…"
"…and discipline…"
"…and tithe compliance."
There it was.
They feared irrelevance.
Before panic became open, the doors opened.
Not hesitantly. Not respectfully.
Simply inevitably.
Robes swept in. Steps measured. Presence unmistakable.
Archbishop Malvane.
Once the most politically dangerous priest in the city. Recently bruised, displaced, sidelined.
Not anymore.
He had recovered.
His robes immaculate. His composure restored. His dignity rehung like armor.
Only his eyes betrayed anything. Harder. Sharper. No warmth. No forgiveness.
Just intent.
"My brothers," he greeted warmly.
It sounded like possession.
Conversations died instantly.
He walked straight to the front of the table without invitation.
He did not ask to reclaim authority.
He assumed it.
"I understand," he said, "we have a… development."
A murmured voice found courage. "Unauthorized miracles, Archbishop. Intervention beyond the Church. A disruptive force."
Malvane nodded slowly, almost thoughtfully.
"Wishes."
He let the word linger.
"People receiving aid… without confession. Without obedience. Without acknowledging us as the voice between mortal and divine."
He chuckled softly.
Amused… like a man watching a child run with knives.
"Unacceptable."
One bishop spoke nervously. "It may be… a test of humility."
"No," Malvane replied gently, dismissing the idea without even honoring it with consideration.
"It is a challenge."
His gaze turned colder.
"Faith is not optional. It is structured. It relies on guidance, fear, gratitude, dependence. It is not merely belief—it is authority. And authority cannot tolerate competition."
Silence deepened.
He stepped closer to the table.
"You all know this. Without us, people begin to imagine they do not need to be guided. When hope wanders freely… structure dies."
Someone swallowed audibly.
"What do we do?"
Malvane smiled.
"We shepherd. Publicly? Concern. Gentle caution. Care for the frightened. Sermons warning of false blessings. Conversations about deception. Let them fear the warmth that does not come from our fire."
"And privately?" another dared to ask.
Malvane's voice softened.
"Privately… we will find this source. And once found…"
He rested both hands on the polished surface.
"…we will decide what it is allowed to be."
He turned and left before anyone could ask further.
And like that, the Church had chosen a direction.
Not holiness. Not purity. Not salvation.
Control.
He did not return to his public quarters.
He went deeper.
Down marble staircases and shadowed corridors. Past halls designed to inspire reverence. Past doors meant to impress.
Into stone.
Into the quiet where faith stopped being grand and started being mechanical.
His sanctuary was not beautiful.
Power rarely needed to be.
Cold rock walls. Locked reliquaries. A heavy stone altar that did not pretend otherwise.
Holy scripture rested open.
He placed his palm upon the text.
Once…
this would have answered him immediately.
Warmth would have risen. Grace listened. Authority answered like an obedient dog.
Nothing responded.
Silence.
A hollow kind of silence.
He tried again, teeth clenched.
Authority. Invocation. Years of sanctified entitlement pushed outward.
Nothing.
The emptiness was insulting.
"…damn you," he whispered.
Then louder.
"Damn you."
His fingers tightened on the edges of the stone as he breathed through a fury he could not afford to show anyone else.
"Ardent."
He said the name like a curse.
"You never simply wound. You corrupt. You break the foundation."
He closed his eyes and didn't pray this time.
He forced.
Not reverence.
Pressure.
And something jerked.
Not divinity.
Not holy.
A tether.
A hook.
He didn't draw upon heaven.
He dragged on faith that wasn't his.
Others' devotion. Other priests' prayers. Relics meant for worship, not consumption.
He felt power flow—
Borrowed. Siphoned. Unearned.
It burned.
Not painfully.
Shamefully.
He broke contact with a sharp breath, stumbling, gripping the altar until the shaking stopped.
It worked.
He had power again.
But only like this.
Dependent. Secretive. Blasphemous.
Ardent hadn't destroyed him.
He'd mutilated the way Malvane functioned.
He wasn't a channel anymore.
He was a thief.
He pressed his forehead to stone.
Not praying.
Containing fury.
Slowly…
he laughed.
Low.
Dark.
Controlled.
"You call this defeat?" he whispered.
"No."
He straightened.
"This is discipline."
His eyes turned toward the sealed cases of relics.
"Power taken is still power. And if I must take… then I will take deliberately."
He adjusted his robes, composure fully restored, mask perfectly smoothed.
"You've changed the rules," he murmured to the memory of Ardent.
"Good."
"I excel with rules."
He turned from the altar.
The candles guttered slightly behind him.
And the Church gained a monster
who now had to sin to remain holy.