The capital of Graycastle, once lively and vibrant, now carried a somber, subdued air under the pale winter sun. The banners of the royal house flapped weakly in the biting wind, their colors dulled by frost. Traders hurried through the streets, pulling their cloaks tight, their voices hushed with tension and rumor. Everyone knew that war loomed — a civil war between the capital and south. King Timothy Wimbledon, King of Greycastle against her sister Queen of Clearwater the new independent nation of the south.
Among the travelers entering the city that day was a lone man in a tattered white robe, the hem frayed and caked with frozen mud. His once-fine cloak had lost its luster, and his boots were worn thin. But despite his weary gait, the faint gleam of the church insignia on his chest still caught the eye of the people. He was a man of the Church — a priest from the Holy City of Hermes.
Father Lune.
He stood for a long while at the gates of the capital, looking at the distant spires that pierced the gray sky. His lips moved soundlessly in prayer, though no warmth reached his eyes. The once-steady fire of devotion that had guided him through countless sermons and rituals flickered faintly, dimmed by doubt.
As he entered the city, his gaze swept over the passing faces — merchants, soldiers, beggars — yet none offered him even a glance. The Church had lost some of its hold in the capital after the late King Wimbledon's death. The people now whispered of war, of new lords, new kings and queens, and progress that came from steel and holy blessings.
Father Lune's journey had been long. His faith — once absolute — was weathered by the things he had seen. The execution of witches, the burning of innocents, the silence of the heavens when he prayed for mercy… and that girl — his friend — taken by the Church so many years ago.
He remembered her face vividly.
Soft eyes, filled with fear the day they came for her.
"You'll thank us someday, Father Lune," the Inquisitor had told him.
"It's mercy to cleanse corruption before it festers."
But that "mercy" had turned her to ash.
He clenched his fists beneath his cloak.
Now, as he walked the long marble hall of the Cathedral, the main Church in the capital of Greycastle, he could still hear the echoes of the choir's hymns — pure, haunting, and cold. The interior was majestic: high ceilings, massive stained glass windows depicting of saints and holy men, and the scent of incense so thick it clung to his clothes.
A young acolyte led him through the nave, his small steps silent on the polished floor. "Please wait here, Father. His Eminence will see you shortly," the boy said before disappearing through a side door.
Father Lune bowed slightly and took a seat near the altar. His hands folded, his lips moved in automatic prayer — words he had uttered a thousand times before, though now they felt heavy, hollow.
After a few minutes, the door opened again.
"Come in, Father Lune."
The voice was calm, measured, but carried authority.
Inside the chamber sat High priest Ferry, the head of the capital's church — an elderly man draped in immaculate white robes. His sharp eyes betrayed the vitality of a much younger man. Papers were scattered on his table — reports, correspondence, and documents bearing both royal and ecclesiastical seals.
Lune bowed deeply. "Your Eminence."
"Please, sit." Ferry gestured. "I'm not expecting you father Lune. The Holy City of Hermes has not sent a word about you coming here."
Lune sat, his expression neutral. "Yes, Your Eminence. I… requested the transfer myself. After the battle in the mountains of Hermes against the demonic beast our forces need to be replenish. I thought it best to serve elsewhere."
"The battle in Hermes, a never ending battle for dawn." Ferry said softly, setting down his quill. "Ah, yes. I've read the report. Hermes, how was it?"
Lune's eyes darkened. "Yes, as strong as ever."
"That should be. Hermes rise of power is inevitable, and the activity of various kingdoms has become… notable," Ferry continued, observing him. "You were among the few priests who survived the various battle."
Lune hesitated. "…I did what I could to fulfill my duties."
Ferry smiled faintly. "Duties are what keep us righteous, Father Lune. Even when they are unpleasant."
A moment of silence hung between them. The faint sound of the wind outside the stained windows was the only thing that moved.
"Rest for now," Vellin finally said, dismissing the subject. "You'll find the capital far more comfortable than the politics of the Holy city. There is order here, purpose. The Church still has deep roots, despite the new King's gain of powers.'"
Lune nodded, rising. "Thank you, Your Eminence."
"Stay faithful, Father," Ferry said softly as Lune bowed and left. "Doubt is the enemy's whisper."
When the door closed, Ferry sighed. His expression hardened as he turned his chair toward the window. Beyond the glass, the city stretched out under a pale sun — a city both alive and rotting.
A soft knock came from behind him.
"Enter."
The door opened, and an old nun stepped in. Her gait was slow but steady, and her wrinkled face bore the kind of serenity only seen in the deeply devout. She bowed slightly. "You called for me, Your Eminence?"
"Yes, Sister," Ferry said, gesturing for her to approach. "How go the preparations for the shipment?"
"All according to schedule, Your Eminence," she replied. "The batch of Blessing Pills has been delivered to the royal palace as requested. The King's alchemists were most eager. The donation from the royal treasury has already been sent to Hermes."
Ferry gave a short, satisfied nod. "Good. The Church will always support those who support us."
He leaned back, hands clasped. "Still… this city grows strange, Sister. Prices fluctuate wildly. The cost of carts and carriages has doubled overnight. Certain merchants claim that large quantities of goods have vanished from the market."
"Indeed," she said quietly. "The traders whisper of a phantom buyer — someone who cornered the supply just before the King's declaration of war. Many suspect the nobles, though no one knows who truly benefits."
Ferry's brow furrowed. "A shadow among the merchants…" He tapped a finger on the desk. "And it inconveniences us. Our shipments from the Cathedral to the front lines have been delayed for lack of transport. We cannot allow such manipulation to continue unchecked."
He looked at her. "Find out who's behind it."
The nun bowed slightly. "As you command."
But before she could leave, Ferry's lips twisted faintly. "And, Sister…"
"Yes, Your Eminence?"
He eyed her with faint distaste. "I've always disliked your… disguise."
For a moment, silence filled the chamber. Then, the old nun smiled — a knowing, faintly amused curve of the lips. Her figure shimmered subtly, and like melting wax, the illusion of age slid away.
In her place stood a young woman — graceful, radiant, and unnervingly beautiful. Her eyes were the color of molten gold, her hair a cascade of silver-white curls that glimmered in the candlelight. The habit she wore seemed suddenly out of place on such a figure.
"Better?" she asked softly, her voice like silk.
Ferry's expression didn't change. "Marginally."
He stood and approached the window again. "The Church of Hermes stands unbroken. But even stone cracks if you let shadows take root within it. Watch this city, Sister. I sense that beneath its calm surface, something stirs. Too many coincidences, too many quiet players."
Her golden eyes flicked toward the window — toward the distant noble quarter where the palace stood faintly illuminated by moonlight.
"As you wish, Your Eminence," she said, a mysterious smile playing at her lips.
The High priest nodded, dismissing her.
As the nun left, her youthful form fading once more into the guise of an aged servant of the Church, Ferry stood alone in the candlelit chamber, gazing toward the south.
The war drums would soon thunder across the land.
And in the heart of the capital, the Church's web of faith and power stretched silently — ready to ensnare whoever dared disturb its order.