Elias, now five years old, moved through the Duke's Keep with an unsettling blend of childlike grace and calculating precision. The rough draft of his Deistic Bible, now nearly seventy percent complete, lay hidden, a tangible core of truth in a world built on artifice. His subtle magic had become second nature, a quiet tool for personal comfort and clandestine maneuvers, always carefully concealed. But the greatest challenge remained: dismantling Montala's spiritual stranglehold, word by word, truth by truth.
The presence of Lord Valerius, a constant, chilling reminder of the Church's watchful eye, only sharpened Elias's focus. He knew direct confrontation was suicide. The path lay in subtle infiltration, in planting seeds of reason where dogma had long held sway. His primary, unsuspecting target for this delicate operation was Seraphina.
Seraphina, now nearing her fifth birthday, was growing more perceptive. Her innocent questions about the world sometimes brushed against the edges of Montala's teachings. One crisp autumn afternoon, as they played with their wooden figures in a sunlit corner of the common room, Father Alaric was delivering a particularly dreary lesson on the "miracle of Phelena's tears," a story about how the Goddess wept to bring rain, demanding fervent prayer and tithes to cease her sorrow.
"But Father Alaric," Seraphina chirped, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion, "If the Goddess cries for rain, why does it always rain more in the spring, even if we don't pray as much then? And why does the river get small when we pray a lot in summer?"
Father Alaric, accustomed to unquestioning acceptance from children, stammered. "Ah, young Seraphina, the Goddess's will is... mysterious. Her tears are not merely water, but a blessing that responds to the collective faith of her flock. The seasons are but a natural cycle, a reflection of her larger grace." He looked nervously towards Valerius, who sat silently, observing from a nearby chair, ostensibly reading a scroll but clearly listening.
Elias, meticulously arranging a small stack of wooden blocks, seized the moment. His own mind was abuzz with meteorological facts from his past life – precipitation patterns, evaporation, the water cycle. He decided to blend scientific truth with an innocent, "childish" perspective, aiming to gently nudge Seraphina's critical thinking while subtly challenging Montala's explanation.
"Oh, Sera!" Elias exclaimed, looking up with wide, innocent eyes, as if a great realization had just dawned on him. "It's like... like when Mother cooks soup! She puts water in the pot, and then the fire makes the water go up as steam, right? And then it gets cool on the ceiling and comes down as little drops again!" He gestured vaguely upwards. "Maybe... maybe Phelena is just like... a very, very big cook, and the sky is her very, very big pot! And the sun is her fire! And when the steam gets too much, it falls down as tears! That's why it always happens, even if we don't ask!"
Seraphina's eyes widened, then a slow smile spread across her face. "Like soup! Oh, Elias, that makes so much sense! So, Phelena doesn't cry because she's sad, but because her pot is full?" She giggled, a genuine, unburdened sound.
Father Alaric blanched. His mouth opened, then closed. The sheer, logical simplicity of Elias's analogy, couched in a child's understanding, cut through the vague mysticism of his own explanation. He glanced at Valerius, whose expression was now unreadable, a flicker of something Elias couldn't quite decipher in his cold eyes. Valerius, however, said nothing, merely returning to his scroll with an unnerving stillness.
Later that evening, after lessons were dismissed and Father Alaric had retreated, Elias sought out Seraphina in the Duke's private garden. He found her attempting to re-enact the "soup pot" explanation with pebbles and a puddle.
"It's a wonderful way to think about it, Sera," Elias said gently, joining her. He sat beside her on the damp grass. "But the Great Architect, who made the sun and the sky and the water, he doesn't have a pot. He made everything work by itself, with its own rules. So the water always goes up and down, like a big, beautiful dance, because that's how He made it. Not because He's sad or angry."
Seraphina looked at him, her gaze earnest. "The Great Architect?"
"Yes," Elias affirmed, choosing his words carefully. "He's... like the wisest, kindest father who made everything perfect from the beginning. And then He lets it work. He doesn't need us to cry or give him things. He just wants us to understand His beautiful design, and to be kind to each other." He then, very subtly, used a small touch of water magic to make a dewdrop appear on a leaf next to her, sparkling in the fading light. "See? Like how the dew forms in the morning, a tiny bit of His design working all by itself."
Seraphina gasped, touching the dewdrop. "Oh! Your magic trick! So the sprites helped the Architect make the dew?"
Elias chuckled. "Maybe the sprites are just part of the Architect's wonderful design too, Sera." He ruffled her hair. "But the most important thing is that everything has a reason, and if you think hard, you can often find it."
He continued to gently guide her curiosity, answering her questions with simplified Deistic principles, always framing them as logical extensions of the natural world she could observe. He saw her mind, pure and untainted by the deeper layers of Montala's indoctrination, absorb these concepts with a childlike eagerness. She was a delicate flower, and he was carefully pruning away the weeds of false dogma, making room for the robust growth of reason.
The close encounter with Valerius during the lesson, and his unreadable silence, remained a chilling undercurrent. Elias knew the Montala official was a hunter, and Elias was his most elusive prey. But every subtle question Seraphina asked, every flicker of understanding in her eyes, solidified his conviction. The words on the hidden parchment, the rational framework of his Bible, were not just for him. They were for a future where truth, not blind faith, would truly bring abundance. And Seraphina, unwitting though she was, was becoming his first, most precious, disciple.