The guards led Clive through winding corridors of the cathedral. This was Clive’s third time here, yet only now did he pay attention to his surroundings. Stone archways and stained glass windows stretched overhead, carved with depictions of angels and saints. The scale rivaled any cathedral he'd known on Earth.

  But what did the Saintess want with him? Their previous interactions had been casual encounters, brief discussions about art and philosophy. For her to send armed guards seemed excessive if this was merely gratitude for his healing work. His mind drifted to those skeletal remains he'd seen upon first entering Marblehaven and the eroded sign that read Here Lie Heretics.

  Around him, whispers drifted from alcoves and side chambers as word of his arrival spread through the holy sanctuary. When he glanced toward the sounds, voices died and robed figures turned away. He had clearly gained a reputation. Whether positive or negative remained unclear.

  They passed through double doors of dark oak. The saintess's office occupied a corner chamber where two walls of tall windows met. Afternoon light streamed through clear glass, illuminating dust motes drifting in the air. Heavy tapestries depicting the miracles of the God of Light hung between the windows.

  The saintess sat at a writing desk of polished walnut. Scrolls and documents lay scattered across the surface. When Clive entered, she looked up with the sharp focus of someone interrupted mid-thought.

  "So, it was you after all,” she said, setting down her quill as she stood up and walked towards Clive. " When the guards mentioned that an artist had cured the stone curse, I wondered… The curse was thought to be impossible to cure, and yet an artist managed it.”

  “How could you be so certain it was me?”

  “I know only one artist in Marblehaven, and that person is standing before me. Drawing by the moonlight is a most unusual hobby. That’s why you stood out so much.”

  Clive smirked. "I find the quiet helps me focus."

  The Saintess let out a small chuckle. It was the same line she had told him when they first met. "I'm sure it does. Though I have to admit, when I first saw you sketching in the square that night, I thought you were documenting something. Perhaps keeping records for... interested parties."

  "You thought I was a spy."

  "The possibility crossed my mind." She clasped her hands behind her back, studying him. "An unknown person making detailed drawings of our architecture, our people. Can you blame me for being cautious?"

  "And now?"

  "Now I know better."

  She moved closer again, her voice dropping. "Tell me, how did you do it? Bringing life back to stone.”

  Clive paused, unsure how best to answer. Telling the very representative of the light that he infused darkness back into the stone didn’t seem like a good idea. Yet, it was not in his nature to lie either. He settled on something vague but truthful.

  “My paint helps them remember what they once were.”

  The Saintess studied him without speaking. Her gaze held the weight of someone used to parsing half-truths from supplicants and confessors.

  "I see." Her tone had cooled. "Is that all?"

  "That's the essence of it." He met her stare directly. "I could explain my techniques, but something tells me you didn't summon guards to escort me here for an art lesson. What do you need?"

  The saintess glanced toward the guards flanking the doorway, then at the priests who had followed them in. "Leave us."

  When the door closed behind them, she turned back to Clive. "We've found him. The source of the curse. The one who's been turning our people to stone."

  "The Devil?"

  "We tried to stop him." She moved closer, close enough that he caught the scent of holy oils in her hair. "Three of our best templars. Gone. Turned to marble before they could even draw their weapons. But your gift can reverse his work. You brought back what he destroyed."

  She took his hands in hers, her palms warm against his knuckles. "Come with us. Help us face him. With you, we can defeat the Devil once and for all."

  Clive stepped back, uncomfortable with her sudden closeness. It took him a few moments to regain his composure.

  "Garrett sneaks extra bread into my supplies when he thinks I'm not looking. Says I'm too thin for a proper craftsman, that customers won't trust a smith who looks like he'd blow over in a strong wind. I told him I’m not a smith, but he wouldn’t listen anyway. Lucia pretends she doesn't notice when I can't pay for potions. Calls it 'testing on willing subjects,' then shoves three vials in my pocket anyway. Won't take them back. This morning, a baker's child tugged on my sleeve. Asked me to draw her a butterfly because she'd heard I could make beautiful things. Her mother tried to apologize, said the girl was bothering me, but..."

  He paused. "The child just wanted something beautiful."

  He finally met her eyes. "A few months ago, these people barely knew me, but they've made room for me anyway. So yes. I'll fight your Devil."

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  She stood perfectly still for a moment, as if his agreement had caught her off-guard.

  "I wasn't certain you'd—" She stopped herself, pressed her lips together. "The elders thought I was mad, bringing in an artist. Some of them still think you a charlatan. They said we needed more swords, not paintbrushes." A bitter smile crossed her face. "But swords didn't help them much, did they?"

  She straightened. "Thank you. The church will remember this."

  Her voice rose. "Captain!"

  The door opened immediately. "See that our guest has everything he requires." She turned back to Clive. "The devil lurks in a cave beyond the town walls. We move at first light."

  She nodded toward the waiting guards. "They'll show you to your quarters. Rest well. Tomorrow, we face darkness itself."

  The younger of the two guards cleared his throat. "This way, sir."

  He led Clive through the cathedral's passages, past chambers where monks hunched over manuscripts and prayer rooms thick with incense. "The archives," he gestured to towering shelves of scrolls, "though lately they speak more of devils than saints."

  They passed a small courtyard where other guards trained, their swords clashing against training dummies. "Preparing," the young guard explained, his hand resting nervously on his own weapon.

  Finally, they reached a well-appointed chamber in the eastern wing. "Your quarters, sir. The saintess insisted on our finest guest room." Fresh herbs hung from the ceiling, filling the air with a sweet calming scent. "I will leave you to rest. Should you require any assistance, please do let us know."

  That night, a full moon hung heavy in the sky. It was that time of the month again. Clive sat at his desk, admiring its beauty. The charcoal in his hand moved almost of its own accord, sketching the moon's familiar face. Jill…

  A soft knock interrupted his reverie.

  "Enter," he called, setting aside his sketch.

  The door creaked open to reveal the saintess, though she was nearly unrecognizable from her earlier formal appearance. Gone were the elaborate robes and ceremonial adornments. Instead, she wore a simple white dress, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. Without her usual regalia, she looked younger.

  "I hope I'm not disturbing you," she said, closing the door quietly behind her. Her bare feet made no sound on the stone floor. "I came to check up on you and saw the light under your door."

  She noticed the sketch on his desk and moved closer to examine it. "The moon again." Her fingers hovered over the paper. “You draw it often.”

  “It was a promise I made, and I intend to keep it.”

  “Yes, you did mention that. Jill, if I remember correctly.”

  Clive nodded.

  “Tell me about her.” She settled into the chair across from him, uninvited. "The woman worth drawing the moon for."

  Clive set down his charcoal, considering. "Strange thing to ask about. Especially tonight."

  "Is it? Tomorrow we might die. Seems like the right time to talk about people we've loved."

  He turned the sketch toward her. "She hated when I drew. Said I disappeared into it, that she'd lose me for hours to a single line." His thumb smudged a shadow beneath the moon's curve. "She was right. I'd sit there perfecting some meaningless detail while she ate dinner alone."

  “Then why do you still draw?”

  "Because it's all I have left."

  He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Why had he said that? But something about her sitting there barefoot in his room, asking about Jill like she had any right to know, it pulled the truth from him.

  She waited. When he offered nothing more, she spoke again. “What do you mean?”

  Clive was quiet for a long moment. "I had to make a choice once. Love or art. The kind of choice that reshapes your entire world." His hand clenched. "I chose art. And in return for losing my love, I gained the ability to make my art reality."

  "Oh," she gasped. "So you're not just a healer. The miracles they speak of..."

  "That's right." Clive took out his sketchpad and drew a rose. With a flash, it formed from nothing. The flower was perfect in every detail, from its rich crimson petals to its sweet fragrance.

  "For you." He extended the flower. "This is my gift. Anything I can imagine, I can create."

  The saintess reached for the rose. As she took it, their fingers brushed, and Clive noticed how the rose's color matched the deepening red of her lips. She brought the flower to her face, inhaling its scent.

  "It's real." She pulled the rose back, staring at it, then at him. " Truly real. Not an illusion. You just—" She pressed a finger to one of the thorns until a bead of blood welled up. "Clive… what are you?"

  "I'm not sure I know anymore." He watched the blood bead on her finger. "But someone told me that as long as I kept drawing, I might see Jill again. Eventually. So that is why I draw.”

  She stood abruptly, still clutching the rose. For a moment, he thought she might leave. Then she spoke again, her voice unsteady. "This power..."

  She paused for a long moment before continuing. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I guess we’re not all that dissimilar after all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She moved to the window, letting the moonlight reflect upon her face.

  “As the whole world knows, the Saintess of the church of the God of Light can only love god.” She took another sniff of the rose. “We must remain pure, untouched. Even for a local chapter like ours, this rule is absolute.”

  She was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. "But I wasn't always the Saintess. I had a name once." Her voice softened. "Diana. Though no one has called me that in years." She turned back to face Clive. "The last person who did was someone I loved. But when I was chosen to be the Saintess..." She shook her head. "A choice had to be made."

  "I didn't want this role." Her hand tightened on the rose stem. "But he made that choice for us both. The church fathers must have convinced him to leave. One day he was just... gone." She gave a bitter laugh. "And so here I am. The saintess of the God of Light, sworn to never love a man."

  She lifted her free hand. Points of light sparked into existence, drifting through the room. They swirled around them both, casting radiance across both their faces. "But in return, the God of Light granted me this gift. Perhaps as compensation. Or perhaps as a reminder of what I sacrificed."

  The lights reflected in her eyes as she looked at Clive. "Then, they told me that as long as I served, eventually I could be reunited with him again."

  "A promise to keep you obedient."

  "Probably. But I choose to believe it anyway."

  "I guess that’s something we have in common."

  The saintess, Diana, he corrected himself mentally, absently touched one of the petals of his conjured rose.

  "I guess so," she whispered.

  A silence fell upon them yet again. Finally, she took a small step back, clutching the rose closer to her chest. "It's late," she said. "We both need rest for tomorrow's battle."

  At the doorway, she paused, one hand resting on the stone frame. The rose's crimson petals seemed to glow against her white dress. She turned back. "I'm glad you're here, Clive."

  Before he could respond, she slipped away into the darkness of the corridor, leaving only the lingering scent of rose petals and holy incense in her wake.

  A voice came from behind Clive, “Having fun, Clive?”

  The church fathers whispered of duty,

  of sacrifice for the greater good,

  of love that must be surrendered

  so that divine love might flourish

  but they never spoke of the silence

  that follows such holy betrayals."

  —From the Lost Confessions of Saintess Diana