NOVPUBThey came before sunrise.
No warning. No calls for surrender.
Only the sound of armoured boots dragging mud through alleys that had no names.
The slums were still half asleep when the first screams started.
Brother Telan stepped through the smoke slowly, robes fluttering at his sides. The heat of the nearby fires shimmered against his skin, sweat already sticking to his neck. His eyes never moved from the path ahead—narrow, crooked, lined with warped doors and makeshift homes. Shacks built on broken stone and hope.
A knight kicked one of the doors open.
A girl stumbled out barefoot, maybe twelve at most, her face streaked with ash. She didn't scream. She just looked at them, eyes wide, confused. Behind her, a woman crawled, coughing, one hand clutching a rosary that looked too worn to still shine.
"Clear the home," the knight said.
"Wait—" the woman gasped. "We're not—please, we're not—"
The sword struck fast. Not cleanly.
The girl tried to run, but one of the younger initiates caught her by the arm. She didn't fight back. Just begged. Whispered something Telan didn't hear. Maybe her mother's name. Maybe a prayer.
The knight holding her didn't hesitate.
A twist.
Then silence.
Telan stepped over the bodies like stepping around trash in the road.
He didn't speak until they reached the next intersection, where the alley split near the old community well. He raised his hand, and the line of fire mages behind him began to chant.
The spell came slow—heat first, then the hiss of stone cracking under pressure.
A pulse of flame bloomed across the next row of shacks.
Roofs lit up like dry straw.
Men and women came pouring out, arms over their faces, coughing, dragging children behind them.
They didn't make it far.
Crossbow bolts cut them down one by one, the bodies tumbling into the dirt, limbs jerking, some still clutching each other.
"None of them leave," Telan said, voice flat. "The Lord of the city was murdered last night. We don't leave rot behind."
A knight stepped forward.
"What if some of them are innocent?"
Telan didn't even turn to face him.
"They live in the same mud. That's enough."
He looked toward the central street, toward the narrow path leading down to The Last Call.
"Find the rat named Endo," he said. "And if he's gone… burn what's left of his name."
——
The old church creaked as it warmed to the sun.
Stone cracked with the sound of settling heat. Wood shifted in its joints. The scent of incense still clung to the rafters from last night's prayers, though the brazier was cold now.
Erina sat at the far end of the nave, by the side window, brushing out her hair in slow, distracted strokes. Her fingers moved out of habit, but her thoughts were elsewhere, knotted and restless, like ribbons pulled too tight.
She hadn't slept.
The cot in the side chamber was rough, but that wasn't what kept her awake. Not the cold. Not the quiet village.
It was him.
Leonhardt.
She could still feel him—his voice behind her ear, the way his hands had lingered, as if claiming her was inevitable.
She hated him.
Didn't she?
Her mouth had said no, but her body… had never been touched like that before. Even thinking of it now made her throat tighten, her cheeks heat.
It wasn't real, she told herself. It was manipulation. A trick.
But her body didn't believe it.
Part of her—the part she'd spent years trying to bury—wanted to know what it would feel like to stop resisting. To give in, even once. Just to see if the pleasure was real. If the heat was hers.
She stopped brushing.
The light outside had changed.
Erina stood and moved to the window. From this angle, the village looked peaceful—rows of crooked homes, the distant forest edge, a few children kicking a stone by the well.
But past that…
There was smoke.
Dark, distant, but unmistakable. Not chimney smoke. Not farmland clearing. It rose in a thick pillar, like a torch held against the sky.
From Astrea.
Her breath caught.
The chapel door creaked open behind her.
She turned.
A man stood in the doorway—robes laced with gold thread, a seal of the Trinity on his chest. Four Holy Knights stepped in behind him, armoured and silent, visors down.
"Erina of the Sixth Ring," the man said. "Daughter of Endo."
She didn't speak.
"You are under investigation for heretical association and aiding a known traitor to the city."
The words hit harder than she expected.
He hadn't asked her anything.
The judgment had already been made.
Erina's knees felt weak.
She hadn't said anything—but they'd already condemned her.
And all she could think was:
Leonhardt warned me…
And as the knights stepped forward, she realised she wasn't in a sanctuary.
She was in a cell.
The church walls didn't feel safe anymore.
They felt smaller. Heavier. Like they were closing around her with every step the knights took.
Erina didn't back away—not yet—but her legs were locked, hands tightening at her sides. The lead inquisitor didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His presence alone carried weight. His words were final.
"You will come with us peacefully," he said. "Or we will take you as we must."
Her lips parted. "I haven't done anything."
"You protected your father. Lied about his dealings. You claim ignorance, but a noble is dead, and the city burns. Your silence is guilt enough."
He stepped closer now, voice steady, expression unreadable.
"And more than that… you faked your own death, Saintess. To flee your duties. To abandon your post. To hide in sin and shadow while the city bled."
Erina's breath caught.
"That's not true."
The inquisitor tilted his head slightly. "Then why did you vanish from the cathedral without explanation? No final rites. No blessing. No record. You were gone, and your robes were found soaked in blood."
"That wasn't my doing—!"
"You faked your death to avoid the burden of your vow. And now a noble lies cold in his estate, gutted like an animal. What is that, if not Blasphemy?"
"Please," she said, but her voice was thin now. Fraying. "Please, you're twisting this. I didn't—"
"Then you were blind."
He gestured slightly.
The knights moved forward.
"No," Erina said, stepping back now, her heel bumping the pew behind her. "Please. Just wait—"
"You had time to speak. The Holy Council has already decided. You are to be judged under the Laws of the Ring."
One of the knights reached for her arm.
Erina slapped his gauntlet away.
"Don't touch me!"
Another knight moved around the pews, boxing her in.
Her breath hitched.
She looked at the altar, where she'd once stood, praying with hands clasped, promising her life to mercy, to compassion, to light.
Now there was only a shadow behind her.
And they wore the same robes she used to admire.
"You're not here for justice," she said, voice low. "You're here for a message. To make an example."
The inquisitor tilted his head. "You've been near the heretic too long."
Erina flinched.
Her fists clenched.
Leonhardt.
His name didn't belong here, but he was already in the room. In her head. His voice was behind her ear again. His touch still warm in memory. His warning.
"The Church eats its own when it suits them. You think your name protects you? You think your purity makes you untouchable? You're just another piece in their mask."
She'd called him a liar.
But now…
She looked at the knights. How little they cared. How they didn't even want to hear her. They hadn't asked if her father was innocent. They hadn't given her a chance to speak.
They came to bind. To drag.
And something inside her broke.
Quietly.
But fully.
"…I'm not going with you," she said.
One knight raised his blade.
The inquisitor's voice turned sharp. "Then we'll take you in chains."
Erina reached for her side—beneath her robe, where the small consecrated dagger lay hidden.
Her hands didn't shake.
Not anymore.
"Then you'll bleed for it," she said.
And for the first time, Saintess Erina of the Sixth Ring drew steel against her own Church.
One of the knights lunged.
Steel flashed toward her ribs—
—and stopped mid-swing, parried with a metallic crack that echoed through the chapel like a snapped bell.
The knight stumbled back.
A black gauntlet caught the blade with effortless precision, wrist unmoving.
Leonhardt stood between them.
His cloak settled behind him like falling ash. He didn't draw a weapon. Didn't raise his voice. He simply looked at the knight as though none of them mattered.
Erina blinked.
"No…"
Her voice cracked. The dagger slipped from her fingers and clattered to the stone floor.
Leonhardt's eyes shifted to her, just for a moment. A Cool and steady gaze, making her spine shudder and her crotch wet.
After all... I cannot deny him any longer.
"You shouldn't be here yet," he said softly.
Her breath trembled. "You—what are you—"
He tilted his head. "Saving what's mine."
She didn't argue.
Didn't run.
Didn't think.
Her body moved first.
She crossed the gap and pressed herself against him, arms locking around his chest, burying her face in his shoulder like she could hide there.
Behind them, the inquisitor shouted. "Seize them—"
Leonhardt lifted one hand.
A low hum shivered through the chapel walls, and in his hand, an expensive dungeon crystal shattered. With a purple light, the stained glass cracked. The altar warped.
"Try," he said.
And then they were gone—ripped from the chapel in a blink of black light, the sound of the world collapsing behind them.
