The cathedral always smelled like prayer.
Incense clung to air like something reluctant to let go.
Stone remembered every whispered confession.
Candles watched patiently, like countless unblinking eyes.
Archbishop Malvane walked through the inner cloister alone.
No attendants.
No witnesses.
Power hummed weakly in his veins. Borrowed. Stolen. Improvised.
Enough to stand tall again.
Not enough to feel safe.
He needed more.
He needed better.
A voice entered the quiet.
Gentle.
Warm.
Pastoral.
"You carry the weight of a shepherd, my son. Heavier than most men can imagine."
Malvane did not flinch—
but he stopped.
A man leaned against one of the cloister pillars.
Old robes. Plain. Too plain for grandeur. Too fine for poverty.
The face was half-shadowed, half-gentle.
A priest.
A monk.
A believer.
A lie.
Malvane masked his unease with authority.
"And you are?"
The stranger bowed respectfully.
"Merely someone who understands burdens."
Malvane studied him.
The stranger's presence felt… familiar.
Not in identity.
In outcome.
This man belonged in places where faith bent shifted and quietly broke.
"What do you want?" Malvane asked.
The stranger smiled softly.
"Nothing."
Which was the most dangerous answer possible.
He stepped closer, robes whispering against the stone floor.
"You are trying to hold together a Church that wishes to pretend it is not afraid," he said gently. "You are expected to speak as leader, act as guardian, decide as God… and do so without error."
Malvane said nothing.
Silence confessed enough.
"They will not thank you for bearing this alone," the stranger continued. "They will not understand the cost. They will only curse you if you fail them."
He sounded sympathetic.
He sounded kind.
It was cruelty in a kinder uniform.
"You require strength," the holy man said. "Real strength. Not ritual. Not permission. Not borrowed grace."
Malvane's jaw tightened.
"And where am I expected to find such strength?"
The man's eyes warmed.
"You already stand in it."
Malvane inhaled slowly.
"…faith."
"Exactly," the stranger nodded softly. "Your people love. They believe. They offer. But the Church has grown… inefficient. Faith pools where it could flow. It calms where it could empower."
He paused.
Then he spoke a sentence that changed everything.
"You do not need heaven to grant you power, Archbishop."
"Faith itself is power."
Malvane stared.
Slowly…
very slowly…
understanding formed.
"You… know how."
"I know how to help you survive," the stranger corrected, voice gentle. "Nothing more."
He took Malvane's hand.
No light burst.
No miracle shone.
Just an understanding slid into Malvane's soul like a key entering a lock.
Knowledge.
A method.
A system.
A way to pull faith not as blessing…
…but as fuel.
From prayers. From worshippers. From priests. From relics. From belief itself.
Without them ever realizing.
A lattice of graceful theft dressed as holiness.
It was elegant.
Efficient.
Beautiful.
Malvane's breath trembled for just an instant.
Then steadied.
"…there will be backlash," he said quietly.
"Yes," the stranger agreed calmly. "Every act of meaning has price. But the cost will not fall on you."
"On who?"
The stranger smiled kindly.
"As always, on those who never notice they are paying."
Malvane considered.
Fear shivered across conscience.
Then discipline crushed it.
"Teach me."
The stranger bowed his head as if blessing a child.
"As you wish."
He guided Malvane gently, reverently, lovingly…
Straight into violation dressed as sacrament.
Faith bent. Power obeyed. Strength returned.
Not holy.
Strong.
So strong.
Malvane exhaled slowly.
Stood taller.
Smiled.
For the first time since Ardent shattered him…
He felt whole.
He turned to thank the stranger—
But the holy man was already walking away.
Not dramatically. Not theatrically.
Just…
gone.
Except he wasn't.
He stood on the outer steps of the cathedral now, hood drawn faintly over his head, watching the city with faint, thoughtful amusement.
He did not glow. He did not radiate darkness. He simply existed with too much silence inside him.
A fallen angel.
Older than most faiths. Younger than eternity.
Not enemy to other wish granters. Not ally.
Simply…
A player.
"You'll hang yourself beautifully with that gift," he murmured fondly.
His tone held neither malice nor pity.
Just pleasure at good theater.
He turned his gaze skyward briefly.
"…and none of the others have even realized I'm here yet."
He smiled.
A polite smile.
A lovely smile.
A predator's smile wearing kindness like robes.
Then he vanished into the faithful crowd,
leaving an Archbishop stronger,
a Church doomed,
and the universe watching
like an audience discovering
its favorite performance had just begun.
---