Julius had noticed the knight trailing him almost immediately.
"He's not even trying to be subtle," he murmured under his breath, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He came to a sudden stop, turning on his heel.
"Is something the matter, dear knight?" he called out, his voice calm but laced with dry amusement. "Lost your way? Or is there something weighing on your chest you'd rather say aloud?"
The knight scoffed, striding up without hesitation.
"Indeed. This entire farce never sat well with me." His hand lingered near the hilt of his blade, though not quite gripping it. "I came to make peace with it."
They stood in the heart of the market square, where villagers bustled past with baskets of grain and bundles of herbs. Laughter rang in the air, bartering chants weaving between stalls, the melody of daily life in full chorus.
But amid the constant motion, only the priest and the knight remained still—like two statues caught in a moment beyond time.
Then, the world changed.
Not with fanfare, nor some visible omen. Rather, it was the absence of sound that struck first. A weary silence settled—unnatural and stifling—as if someone had performed a miracle and stolen the very breath from the village.
The knight was the first to notice. The rhythm of the townsfolk faltered, steps slowed, and gazes turned. Slowly, people began gathering at the far edge of the square, drawn not by a shout or spectacle, but by some unseen weight in the air.
Julius turned his head, expression unreadable.
"Let's see what this is about," he said quietly. "We'll settle to our... dispute afterward."
Jack gave a reluctant nod, his hand never straying far from the hilt at his side.
They pushed through the forming crowd, until the scene revealed itself.
A young girl stood at the center, skin the hue of dry earth, her dark eyes wide but unflinching. Beside her stood a stranger, clad in travel-worn garb, wild with agitation—his voice the only sound that had returned to the square.
"A cursed one!" the man spat, pointing a trembling finger at the girl. "You're harboring her? In this town? She should be bound—not free to walk among us!"
Jack jaw tightened, the words striking a nerve. His eyes widened a faint smile drew upon his face.
"A cursed one... in Hollomere. And quite the young one !"
He reached for his blade.
But Julius stepped forward swiftly, slipping between Jack and the girl with a calm, deliberate grace. His eyes were not filled with alarm—only deep, familiar sadness.
"Don't be so hasty."
Jack frowned.
Julius didn't flinch.
"You've heard the stories, haven't you? About Hollomere? This place doesn't suffer fools kindly."
He looked past the knight, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd, then back to the girl—watching her as if recognizing something long buried, some half-remembered truth woven into her presence.
As Julius stepped forward to calm the agitated man, it happened.
A sudden thud broke the tension.
The man staggered, then crumpled to the ground—struck cleanly in the head by a rock.
For a heartbeat, the entire square held its breath.
The silence that followed was heavier than before—not the hush of curiosity, but the kind that comes before judgment.
All eyes turned, including Julius's.
Alistair.
The young man stood there, not bothering to hide the act. The stone still lay near his feet.
"Fool…" Julius muttered, his voice strained. "What is he thinking?"
But he did not move. He remained rooted where he stood, watching, waiting—for the wind to shift, for the curse of Hollomere to awaken.
And yet... nothing came.
No light split the sky.
No tremor shook the earth.
No unseen voice cried blasphemy.
Only the crowd held their breath, and the world seemed to lean in—to listen.
Alistair stepped forward, brushing past Julius. His voice came low, brittle at the edges, like something long-held cracking under its own weight.
"I'm sorry, Julius," he whispered—not with defiance, but weariness.
"I've just… had enough of this place."
No flourish, no fire—only exhaustion tucked beneath the words, like a man quietly drowning.
Then he looked up, his expression twisting into something familiar but forced. A crooked grin, too practiced to be honest, slid across his face like a mask he couldn't quite let go of.
He turned to the girl.
"Fancy meeting you here," he said, tone light—far too light—as though it might hide the storm still clinging to him.
The boy and girl drifted toward the horizon, swallowed by the golden haze of the afternoon. One by one, the villagers returned to their tasks—as if nothing had happened. As if the silence, the stone, and the stranger had all been a passing dream.
"Follow me," Jack said, his voice low and hard. Julius didn't protest.
They made their way to the forest's edge, where no eyes could pry—only the trees bore witness.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Why is a cursed child walking freely among your flock? You, of all people, should know what that means!"
Julius didn't flinch. His gaze was calm, almost distant, as though looking beyond the moment—his voice quiet, tinged with something deeper: resignation, perhaps... or faith.
"There is little one can do when Hollowmere chooses it's own " he said. "To Hollowmere she is not a cursed—just an unfortunate child."
Jack's temper flared hotter, his words sharp as steel.
"Spare me the poetry," he snapped. "You took a vow—to uphold truth, not sentiment." He stepped closer, eyes burning. "Evil wears many faces, and innocence is its favorite mask. That is why the teachings exist—not to comfort us, but to guard us from what lies beyond the veil of sight."
Julius offered a faint, knowing smile.
"Is that so? And who decided that? Tell me, Jack—if you were born in Mournkar or Sundavar, would your truth still be the same?"
Jack scowled, his fists clenched.
"Of course it would. Lies may flourish, but only for a time. God cleansed mankind, gave us the light of Yggdrasil—a second chance."
Julius leaned in, his voice low but cutting.
"Then explain the duskborn. The cursed. Why do they still exist? Are you saying God's blessing faltered? Or do you simply not see the cracks in your logic?"
Jack's jaw tightened. "They chose darkness. Even after witnessing the divine light, they clung to their desires. It's destiny—they earned their mark."
"Then where is the balance?" Julius snapped back. "By that reasoning, a sinner should become duskborn, and a duskborn who atones should be reborn in the light. But it doesn't happen. Does it?" He let out a bitter laugh. "You don't really believe it works that way."
Jack's voice rose, angry and desperate. "You've strayed, priest. Some truths lie beyond the grasp of man. We aren't meant to understand everything—we accept, we obey. That's how we survive!" He stepped forward, eyes blazing. "Even if we disagree, you must at least admit—without the teachings, mankind would drown in its own darkness. They're the last thing keeping us from falling."
Julius stood firm, his voice unwavering.
"No one denies the need for the light. But there's a difference between walking in truth—and twisting it to suit your fears. That child… and this land… are proof of something deeper. Something your rules cannot contain."
Jack's eyes widened. "Is that why you're here? To test your faith? To see if there's more to all this than what you preach? Are your sins so heavy you doubt your own path?" His voice rose, cracking with fury. "Her Grace received a revelation! Do you even grasp what that means? Revelations don't wait—they fade. And you stand here treating it like a burden, not the divine honor it is!"
The priest's eyes darkened, and when he spoke, his words were sharp and cold as winter wind.
"You expect people to tear their lives apart for every whisper from above?"
He stepped closer, his face just inches from the knight's, his voice low and unflinching.
"If it's so urgent, then speak it plainly. Don't shroud it in riddles and pride, like some sacred puzzle only the devout deserve to solve."
Silence fell. The wind stirred the trees, a soft rustling like breath between arguments.
Then Julius turned, his back to Jack, and spoke in a tone heavy with sorrow.
"We all serve the gods, Ser Knight. But don't mistake your ears for the only ones they speak to."
The priest's words hung in the air, like a stone cast into a still pond. Their ripples spread slowly, and the weight of them pressed into the silence.
"He spoke not, yet his silence was weighed. In the ash, he stood—unbent, untouched, unnamed by guilt."
The knight's face twisted, fury and confusion battling within him. He extended his arm toward the priest, his hand trembling slightly, as if the gesture alone required all of his strength.
"I command you to—" he began, but his words faltered as the world around him suddenly tilted. His vision blurred, his breath quickened, and the steady earth beneath his feet seemed to shift like sand.
The knight fell to his knees, gasping, his body trembling with the force of something unseen, something far older than either of them. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The air grew thick, oppressive, as though the very atmosphere was pressing down on him.
Julius stood still, watching. His expression betrayed neither triumph nor malice—only the cool, dispassionate gaze of one who had long accepted that certain paths could not be avoided.
"That's how it always is," the priest scoffed, his voice sharp with a bitter disappointment. "They never listen until it's too late."
He crouched down, meeting the knight's gaze, his eyes full of something like pity. He leaned in, his voice lowering, not unkindly.
"Don't worry. I forgive you." He said the words with ease, as though they were nothing more than a passing thought. "You'll only lose consciousness for a few minutes—maybe hours. But you'll be fine. I promise."
The knight tried to make sense of the priest's words, his mind spinning, but before he could piece it together, the darkness overcame him. His body crumpled to the ground, and his last thought—a whisper caught in his fading consciousness—was a single name.
"Hollowmere…"