The priestess had always believed that faith was built on certainty.
Not comfort—certainty.
A decision made once, upheld forever, unquestioned by doubt or emotion. That belief had guided her entire life within the church. Until Raven.
She stood alone in the inner sanctuary, where no acolytes were permitted to enter without permission. The large cross loomed above the altar, carved from ancient stone, worn smooth by centuries of reverence. She did not kneel. She did not raise her hands. She simply stood, eyes fixed on the floor, as if the stone beneath her feet might offer answers the heavens refused to give.
Raven was not present.
And yet, he occupied her thoughts completely.
She had ordered his isolation herself. No debate. No hesitation. At the time, the decision had been clear. Necessary. The world of Arknights was already strained by forces it barely understood—Originium, catastrophe, endless war. The last thing it needed was a child whose birth coincided with the disappearance of something foundational, something ancient. A source. A balance.
She had told herself it was coincidence.
She had told herself many things.
The priestess closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. The air felt heavier than usual, as though the silence itself pressed inward. She had begun to notice that sensation more often lately. Not only in Raven's presence, but even when thinking of him. As if awareness itself carried weight.
He was only a boy.
A male child, small, quiet, unassuming.
And yet…
Her thoughts drifted back to the moment of his birth.
No divine light.
No voice from above.
No sign of blessing or condemnation.
Just silence.
That silence had frightened her more than any omen could have.
She had baptized countless children. She knew the rhythm of the ritual by heart. Holy water, sacred words, the reassurance that heaven acknowledged the name spoken. But when she had stood before Raven, something had resisted—not violently, not dramatically—but absolutely. As if the ritual itself had failed to recognize him.
Not rejected.
Not accepted.
Unacknowledged.
That was when fear had taken root.
Fear not of the child himself, but of what his existence implied. A world where heaven did not answer. A world where faith no longer functioned as expected. She had dedicated her life to preventing such uncertainty from spreading.
So she had chosen distance.
"He will live," she had declared that night.
"But far from the House of the Lord."
At the time, she had believed she was being merciful.
Now, she was no longer certain.
The priestess had begun to notice subtle changes within the church. Nothing overt. No blasphemy. No signs of corruption. But priests lingered longer in corridors without knowing why. Candles burned too steadily. Silence felt… attentive.
And always, when she followed those sensations to their source, her thoughts returned to Raven.
She had not visited him in some time. That was deliberate. Distance, she believed, would weaken the effect. But instead, it seemed to magnify it. Absence sharpened awareness. The more she avoided him, the more present he became in her mind.
Was this guilt?
She rejected the notion immediately. Guilt was for those who doubted their choices. She had acted to protect the church, the world, and perhaps even the child himself. Exposure to faith, ritual, and expectation could have shaped him into something dangerous—or broken him entirely.
Isolation had been a shield.
At least… that was what she had believed.
Her fingers tightened slightly at her side. The priestess was not unaware of Brother Alaric's quiet observations. She had noticed his lingering presence, his watchful silences. She had not questioned him. To do so would require acknowledging that something was happening—and she was not ready for that.
What troubled her most was not that Raven existed beyond doctrine.
It was that he did so without malice.
If he were violent, destructive, or openly aberrant, she could justify her fear. She could name him a threat. But Raven was none of those things. He did not scream. He did not defy. He did not act.
He simply was.
And that unsettled her more than any demon ever could.
The priestess turned toward a narrow window, where pale light filtered through stained glass. The colors painted faint patterns on the stone floor—muted, restrained, almost reluctant. She wondered, briefly, whether the light avoided the church… or whether the church resisted it.
Her thoughts returned again to the ancient texts. Not the canonical scriptures, but the forgotten margins. Warnings written in trembling hands. Fragments of theology deemed too ambiguous for public teaching.
The old gods, they said, did not demand worship.
They demanded recognition.
Not through prayer.
But through awareness.
She had dismissed such writings in her youth as heretical speculation. Now, they resurfaced unbidden.
Raven had not demanded anything.
Not attention.
Not affection.
Not faith.
And yet, everything around him responded.
That was the fracture.
The priestess pressed her palm lightly against the cold stone wall. For the first time in years, she allowed herself to question her own certainty.
What if isolation was not containment… but cultivation?
What if, by removing him from the world, she had sharpened his sensitivity to it?
The thought unsettled her deeply.
She had wanted to prevent influence. Instead, she may have removed distraction.
Raven did not learn words.
He did not learn doctrine.
He did not learn fear.
He learned presence.
A chill passed through her—not supernatural, but psychological. She realized that her decision had not erased possibility. It had refined it.
The priestess lowered her head slightly, not in prayer, but in contemplation. She was no longer asking God for justification. She was asking herself whether faith without understanding was still faith—or merely habit.
For the first time, she acknowledged a truth she had avoided since the night of his birth:
Her decision had been made in fear.
Not fear of Raven.
Fear of uncertainty.
And uncertainty, she now realized, was already here.
Somewhere in the depths of the monastery, a small boy existed quietly, reshaping the invisible contours of the world without intention or awareness. And above him, in the sanctified halls of faith, the woman who had condemned him to solitude stood questioning the foundation of her own belief.
The priestess did not yet regret her choice.
But for the first time…
It no longer felt whole.
End of Chapter Seven.