Faith shouldn't feel tired.
It shouldn't feel thin, or brittle, or stretched like a beloved hymn sung one octave too high.
And yet…
Something subtle moved beneath the cathedral.
Not loud. Not violent.
Just wrong.
The morning service began like countless mornings before it. Light filtered through colored glass in gentle, forgiving hues. Choir voices lifted. Incense curled upward as if even smoke still believed in heaven.
The faithful gathered.
Mothers. Fathers. Workers. Old souls who had never missed a dawn prayer in fifty years.
They bowed their heads.
They prayed.
And something pulled.
Not painfully. Not noticeably.
Just constantly.
A quiet drip.
A siphon in slow motion.
The first to feel it were the old.
Hands that had once trembled only with age now trembled with something else. Breath grew short not with sickness, but with strain that faith had never asked of them before.
A boy beside his grandmother frowned.
"Gran? Are you—?"
"I am fine," she whispered with a smile that was both sincere and frightened. "Just a little tired today."
She was not alone.
Whispers spread after the service.
"I feel faint." "My chest is heavy." "My prayers… echoed strangely today." "Do you remember when prayer made you feel lighter?"
But no one panicked.
They trusted.
The Church did not fail.
It couldn't.
They told themselves this as they returned to their homes.
They told themselves this as the ache lingered.
They told themselves this as an invisible weight settled quietly into their bones and did not leave.
---
Deep in the cathedral, behind doors that required permission to even look at,
Archbishop Malvane felt magnificent.
Power moved in him cleanly now. Effortlessly. Strong.
It didn't burn like the stolen relic energy before.
This was smoother. Cleaner. Richer.
Living power.
Faith breathed through him like wind through an organ pipe, and he was the one who shaped the note.
He stood straighter than he had in years.
He felt younger by ten.
He smiled softly at the sanctuary wall.
"This is stewardship," he whispered. "Guidance. Protection. I do not take. I carry."
It was important to believe that.
It made everything easier.
He closed his eyes and reached out with this new authority.
He did not consume.
He adjusted.
Faith now… flowed.
Less where it lingered unused. More where he required strength.
Congregations would never feel a thing. Or so he promised himself.
The cathedral lights brightened as though agreeing.
Malvane exhaled calmly.
For the first time, he truly believed he might win.
---
Outside the cathedral, under the statue of a saint whose eyes had seen far too much history to still be impressed,
a holy man sat peacefully feeding pigeons.
He looked content.
He looked harmless.
He was neither.
The fallen angel watched people leave the morning service. He listened. Observed. Cataloged the small tremors no one else noticed:
The subtle wobble in steps. The way laughter didn't return as quickly. The increased number of quiet breaths taken just a touch too long.
He smiled faintly.
"Oh, Malvane," he chuckled softly. "You learn quickly. You damage beautifully."
A small bird hopped onto his knee.
He stroked it gently.
"I will not stop you," he promised the empty courtyard. "Your faith is your ladder… and I would never steal a man's chance to climb."
He fed the bird another crumb.
"Even if that ladder is standing over a cliff."
He rose.
No miracle.
No glow.
No ripple in the world.
Just a man standing up to continue his walk.
And as he vanished into the city's movement, somewhere far away, something very old and very quiet noted the shift and marked it down.
Not interfered.
Not warned.
Just recorded.
Because consequences have incredible patience.
---
Meanwhile, far from the cathedral, Aiden paused.
He wasn't sure why.
Inkaris and Liora were talking about something—currency logistics, supply routes, routine survival chatter. Seris was half-listening, half-thinking, because Seris never truly stopped thinking.
Aiden stared off toward the horizon, toward a part of the city he couldn't see…
…but felt.
Something faint brushed across him.
Not danger. Not threat.
Not even hostile.
Just… presence.
Like a distant chord struck in a room he didn't know he was standing inside.
He frowned.
"Something wrong?" Liora asked gently.
He blinked.
Then shook his head.
"…no," he said softly.
But he didn't sound convinced.
Not because he sensed what had happened…
…but because the universe had quietly gained another thread
and his instincts,
new and untrained as they were,
knew that threads meant
stories.
And stories either healed…
or broke.
He just didn't know yet
which kind this one would be..