Cold winds welcomed the two.
The warm Song offered respite against the night.
Only one hand took the grace.
He had expected it to—some low harmonic resonance embedded in stone and glass, some constant devotional pressure humming beneath the senses the way Guild halls murmured with contracts and intent. Instead, the air inside the sanctum was inert. Heavy, yes—but inert in the way deep water was heavy. Present. Undeniable. Utterly indifferent.
Aluna noticed it too.
She slowed the moment they crossed the threshold, fingers tightening around the symbol at her chest. Her breath caught—not in fear, but confusion. The Song should have been strongest here. Concentrated. Refined through centuries of worship and sacrifice.
But it wasn't.
The doors closed behind them without ceremony.
Stone swallowed the sound.
The sanctum was vast, but not grand in the way people expected holiness to be. There were no towering statues of gods locked in heroic poses, no stained-glass depictions of divine triumph. The walls were bare stone, worn smooth by time and touch. The ceiling arched high overhead, supported by ribs of dark metal that reminded Sawyer uncomfortably of something anatomical.
At the center of the chamber stood a single table.
And behind it, a man.
Head Priest Francis looked… ordinary.
He was older than Aluna, but not ancient. His hair was gray rather than white, tied back neatly. His robes were simple, unadorned save for a thin thread of silver at the collar—no symbols of rank, no visible Songwork woven into the fabric.
He did not rise when they approached.
He smiled.
"Hunter," he said, as though greeting an old acquaintance. "Thank you for coming."
Sawyer stopped several paces from the table, boots settling evenly against the stone.
Aluna stepped half a pace ahead of him, instinctive, protective.
"You summoned us, Your Eminence."
Francis inclined his head.
"I did. And please—titles are unnecessary here."
His gaze shifted fully to Sawyer.
Not probing.
Not hostile.
Assessing.
"You caused quite the disturbance at the Guild," the priest continued mildly, fingers interlacing atop the table. "Vice-Guild Master Erika rarely interrupts her own schedule unless she believes something foundational has been threatened."
Sawyer said nothing.
Silence was a tool. He had learned that long ago.
Francis gestured toward the chair opposite him.
"Sit, if you wish. Or stand. I find people reveal more when they choose discomfort."
Sawyer remained standing.
The priest's smile widened by a fraction.
"Very well," Francis said. "Then let us speak plainly."
He folded his hands atop the table. No glow accompanied the motion. No ripple of Song.
"You do not carry it."
Aluna stiffened, breath hitching before she mastered it.
Sawyer did not react.
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water—not loud, not dramatic, but impossible to ignore.
"Not suppressed. Not sealed. Not masked," Francis continued, unhurried. "Absent."
Aluna turned sharply.
"That's—"
Francis raised one hand, palm outward.
"I know. What doctrine says. What should be impossible. I also know what my senses tell me."
His eyes never left Sawyer.
"I have never met a man completely rejected by the Song," Francis went on. "But I have known people who were hated by it."
Sawyer exhaled slowly through his nose.
"So," he said at last, voice level. "You're going to report me."
Francis chuckled—a soft, genuine sound.
"If that were my intention, you would not be standing here."
Sawyer's eyes narrowed by a fraction.
"Then what do you want?"
The priest leaned back in his chair, wood creaking faintly beneath his weight.
"I want to understand," he said. "And I want to offer you something before others decide what you are for themselves. Never again do I wish to see the righteous condemned by the world."
Aluna frowned.
"Others?"
Francis nodded once.
"Part of the Guild already suspects. The city will follow. Institutions always do." He paused. "They may never know you are entirely without Song—but prejudice clings to absence as fiercely as it does to excess."
Sawyer felt it then—not fear, but recognition.
He had stood in rooms like this before. Rooms where men decided what shape a threat would be allowed to take.
"And what shape do you think I am?" Sawyer asked.
Francis studied him for a long moment, head tilting slightly.
"Not a monster," he said. "And not a miracle. You are… an omission."
Sawyer laughed quietly—a short, humorless sound.
"That's a first."
"I imagine it would be," the priest replied. "Tell me—does the Song hurt you?"
The question caught Aluna off guard; her fingers tightened again at her chest.
Sawyer tilted his head.
"It doesn't reach me."
"Not what I asked."
Sawyer regarded the priest anew.
"No," he said. "It doesn't hurt. It just… doesn't matter."
Francis nodded slowly, as though confirming a private theory.
"That is precisely why you frighten people."
Aluna glanced away—not far enough to lose Sawyer from her periphery.
"Faith, power, and order here are structured around resonance," Francis continued calmly. "Around response. The Song. A man who stands outside that system cannot be placed within it."
He drew one sleeve back slightly, fingers tightening before relaxing again.
Sawyer stepped closer to the table, stone whispering beneath his boots.
"You're saying I don't belong."
"Yes," Francis said. "And I'm saying you cannot be categorized. Which makes you dangerous to bureaucrats and zealots alike."
Aluna looked between them.
"Then why protect him?"
Francis's gaze softened.
"Because I've seen what happens when the Church mistakes anomaly for heresy," he said quietly. "And because the thing that killed my subordinate was not divine will—it was certainty. More human than beast."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Sawyer spoke.
"You're not afraid of me."
Francis smiled faintly.
"Oh, I am. But fear is not the same as rejection. I learned that lesson long ago."
He reached beneath the table and produced a thin token of dark metal, sliding it across the stone.
"This will give you asylum," he said. "It will not make you welcome—but it will make you untouchable by Church doctrine. For now."
Aluna's eyes widened.
"You'd grant that to him?"
"I would grant it to the unknown," Francis replied. "Before others decide it must be erased."
Sawyer stared at the token.
"And the cost?"
Francis met his gaze evenly.
"Stay close," he said. "To the city. To the Guild. To us. If something like you exists, others may follow. And when they do, I want them to find a man who chose restraint."
Sawyer picked up the token.
It was cold.
"I don't belong to you."
"I know," Francis said. "That is why this is an offer—not a command."
Sawyer turned toward the doors. He took two steps before the priest spoke again.
"May I have your name?"
He stopped.
After a moment, he answered.
"Sawyer."
The silence rang—not in judgment, but acceptance.
"The Song was never meant to be the only voice in the world," Francis said softly. "Sawyer. We simply forgot how to listen for the rest."
The doors opened.
Silence welcomed Sawyer back.