Praying was a precious thing.
It meant one still clung to the extravagant hope that some miracle would fix everything.
Severine had never been one for such extravagance.
Faith, to her, had always been a beautifully wrapped lie—something the weak clutched when reality proved too sharp to hold with bare hands.
And yet, she stood before the grand stone steps of the house of faith.
The white cathedral appeared strangely enchanting against the dark sky. Silver bells hung beneath the domed archway, fluttering in the fierce wind. It was almost as if the bell were welcoming her inside.
Traveling through the two open wooden doors, she witnessed the usual sight.
The stained-glass windows on both sides—depicting the benevolent smile of the God of Fate—glimmered faintly as dawn began to bleed across the horizon.
How ironic.
Of all deities, it was the God of Fate she noticed first. The silent architect of fortune and ruin.
Severine had never believed in him.
