"Bishop Aurelio, for one, has succumbed to a madness most peculiar."
Archbishop Lorenzo, Date Unknown.
Moments later, Valeria snorted at his scholar-grade vocabulary.
"Empirically quantified? God, you talk like a lecturer who wandered into the wrong camp," she said, elbowing him lightly. "But fine. Since you impressed us all with your little Sensei act…"
So much for taking me seriously.
She tipped her mug back, then continued.
"There are two kinds of power. First: Artifacts—Divine Instruments, if you want the church-approved term. Those have a fixed strength. They do what they do, no more, no less."
She raised two fingers.
"Second: the power that comes from you. That one grows. Slowly. Painfully. In stages. Six of them."
Francis leaned in despite himself. "And those stages are…?"
She ticked them off casually, as if reciting grocery items—Not that he knew what those looked like, seeing how his island was too poor for a Grocer.
"Supplicant. Acolyte. Deacon. Reverend. Venerable. Saint."
He blinked. "Sain—so the Div—wait. So Divine Instruments follow the same hierarchy?"
Valeria smirked. "More or less. Assuming you can handle the essence of the poor soul inside the item."
The idea twisted in his stomach—a person's essence turned into an object? Condensed? Bound? It nearly made him vomit, especially since he was in possession of such an item. That would have been suspicious, however, thus he kept it all to himself.
He pushed on instead. "What about the stages themselves? What they do. What changes?"
Valeria chuckled, long and low.
"Now that is the end of your free question. If you want the next lesson, you'll have to impress me again."
He exhaled, half frustrated, half intrigued. "Fair enough. Thanks… for what you did share."
She raised her mug in a lazy salute, then stood, drawn back to her crew. The pirates resumed their songs and laughter. Francis pretended to pay attention.
But his mind had already wandered.
The ruby ring in his pocket felt heavier than it had an hour ago.
If what she said was true, it had to be low-tier. Supplicant, maybe Acolyte on a generous day. Anything stronger and it would've shredded him from the inside out—assuming these supernatural lunatics had a higher "life order" than him.
Which, judging by Valeria flattening a dozen men without breaking a sweat, seemed like a very safe assumption.
As the night deepened, Francis finally trudged back to his small but comfortable house, each step heavier than the last. The day's events pressed on him like a tide: the ring, the looming wedding, the pirates, the endless shift at the bar. Too much to focus on, and not nearly enough time to do it all.
Even so, there was progress. Small, steady, enough to make him feel he hadn't wasted the day entirely.
By tomorrow, there would be five days left until the wedding and just one day until his new bed arrived—a thought that brought a faint, tired smile.
He opened the door, letting the familiar warmth of his home envelope him, and considered pondering the implications of the ring or what lay ahead. But the pull of exhaustion was stronger. His thoughts dulled, his body surrendered, and sleep finally took him, dragging him under.
***
The rooster did its job, crowing with loud insistence, and Francis didn't even bother to complain. By the sun's angle, he'd overslept enough already.
"Another mass missed," he muttered under his breath, though he knew it wasn't really about neglecting his religious duties. It was about her—Camila—and the quiet, unshakable pull she had on him.
He laced up his trusty boots, tightened the straps, and stepped out into the bright morning. Today was all about one thing: figuring out how on earth he was going to feed an entire town.
Francis had barely stepped outside when Camila came toward him from the far end of the road, her expression caught somewhere between worried and annoyed.
"Where have you been? I didn't see you since yesterday morning."
The question landed with a weight he didn't quite expect. He had vanished, and it wasn't like him. A knot of guilt tightened in his stomach.
"Sorry," he said. "I spent some time with the privateers last night."
"With your gorgeous captain, you mean?" she asked, teasing on the surface but edged with something sharper underneath.
"We just sparred and chatted. That's all."
Camila didn't answer right away. She looked at him for a moment—really looked—as if weighing the words, testing them for cracks. Her mouth held a thin, uncertain line.
"Mhm. Alright. Just remember who you're getting married to, yeah?"
There was something in her voice that wasn't there before. Not quite accusation. Not quite fear. Just a small, reluctant doubt she didn't want to speak aloud.
Maybe it was the empty street. Maybe it was the lingering rush from last night. Maybe he just hated the idea of that doubt settling in her. Francis stepped closer and kissed her, gentle but steady.
"You have nothing to worry about," he said.
And just like that, the doubt seemed to vanish. Camila's cheeks flushed, her eyes widened, and she nodded—bashful, almost dazed—before heading off toward work. He watched her go, still unsure why one kiss shifted her so completely, but he didn't linger on it. There were bigger concerns waiting for him.
The first order of business was the bakery. Francis pushed open the door and was hit with the usual warmth. He asked for a hundred loaves—enough for seventy townsfolk, twenty pirates, and the inevitable handful who'd asked for extra.
The old baker blinked at him, confused for a heartbeat. Then recognition softened her face.
"For the wedding feast, hm?" she said, lips bending into a knowing smile.
"Something like that."
"I'll start the preparations, but you'll pick them up the day of the wedding. Bread that sits for five days isn't fit for dogs, let alone guests."
"That works," he said. "And… thank you."
"Bah. Thank your bride. She's the one who bakes half the day for you already."
He couldn't argue with that.
Next were the drinks. And for that, fate had him marching straight back to Maura, the woman he was technically supposed to be avoiding for a while. She stood behind the counter tallying bottles, eyes narrowing the moment he approached.
"No discount," she said before he even opened his mouth
"I didn't ask for—"
"You were going to." She tapped two crates stacked behind her—crates he had absolutely no chance of carrying home. "These are yours, but they stay here until the wedding. I'm not watching you snap your spine trying to haul them across town."
"Generous."
"Practical," she corrected. "And when you're back from your little holiday, we'll talk about… benefits."
He didn't want to know what that meant. He paid anyway.
The stew was next, and that was where his grand plan fell apart. He stood in the middle of the street for a solid minute, trying to puzzle out how one man was supposed to feed ninety people a real meal.
Then he remembered the dowry custom.
Camila's mother could handle that part without blinking.
Ma'am Gabriela agreed the moment he asked—almost too quickly. Camila was already beside her, sleeves rolled up, ready to help. The relief on the older woman's face said more than any formal blessing.
"Food for the dowry is easier than coin," she said. "And we'll make enough to choke half the island. You leave it to us."
He thanked her and stepped back out into the street.
The day's heat was settling in. His boots already felt twice as heavy from all the errands, and his pulse still hadn't settled since morning.
"I wonder if I forgot anything," he murmured, rubbing at the back of his neck.
"Meat," Valeria said from beside him.
Francis nearly jumped. His hand flew to his chest before he could stop himself. "Where did you come from!" The words came out louder—and ruder—than intended. "Sorry. You just… startled me."
Valeria didn't take offense. If anything, she looked entertained. "I have a ship docked in your harbor, in case you haven't noticed."
"You know what I mean."
She brushed the question away with a flick of her hand, the same way she ignored half the world when it suited her. Then she shifted topics without warning, as she always did. "Is my crew invited?" she asked, wearing a smirk that said she already knew the answer.
"Do I have a choice?" Francis said. As far as the seas were concerned, the island was effectively being held hostage by "privateers"—it was just that Valeria happened to be one of the gentler captors. Or so the stories claimed, compared to what roamed the rest of the seas.
"What? You wouldn't be honored to have a bunch of sweaty, drunk sailors singing on the most important day of your life?" she said. "What a bore you are, bartender."
Her grin widened, bright and merciless.