We slipped into Bredford through a narrow side gate just before dawn, the city still half-asleep. Fog clung to the streets, softening the edges of stone and timber, muffling the distant sounds of guards changing shifts. Somewhere deeper in the city, a bell rang once—low, tired, unaware of what was coming.

  Ashe walked beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly brushed. He kept his hood low, eyes scanning every rooftop, every alley mouth.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. “Just… turn back. Run to Sophie. The Devils will keep you safe—like they did for me.”

  I didn’t slow. “For how long?”

  He faltered, just a step.

  “I couldn’t save Mara,” I went on, the words cutting deeper now that I said them aloud. “I couldn’t save the girl in the cathedral. I keep telling myself I’m doing something right, but every time I close my eyes I see them.”

  My jaw tightened. “How do I live with myself if the clergy are still standing? If they keep taking and taking and no one stops them?”

  Ashe stopped walking.

  I took two more steps before realizing he wasn’t beside me anymore. I turned back.

  He stood there in the fog, fists clenched at his sides, shoulders trembling as if he were holding himself together by force alone.

  “You think I don’t ask myself the same thing?” he snapped, then caught himself, voice breaking despite the effort to steady it. “Every night. Every morning.”

  He looked away, staring down the empty street.

  “I wish life was different,” he said softly. “That there was peace somewhere—far from the Church’s reach. A place where people could struggle, fail, grow… without sacrificing everything to those men in robes.”

  Something twisted hard in my chest.

  Mara.

  Her voice echoed in my memory, clear as the lake, as the afternoon sun. Somewhere girls like us don’t have to worry about the Calling.

  Ashe swallowed and continued, unaware of the storm he’d stirred in me.

  “But I don’t want you to kill yourself doing this,” he said. “I don’t want you to disappear into some symbol, or some legend, until there’s nothing left of you.”

  He finally met my eyes.

  “I don’t want to lose you too.”

  For a moment, the city felt impossibly quiet.

  I exhaled slowly. “I’m already losing parts of myself,” I admitted. “Every time I use the SIN. Every time I don’t.”

  I stepped closer to him. “But if I walk away now, then all of it—Old Tumbledown, Deermarch, Bredford—it means nothing.”

  Ashe’s lips parted, like he wanted to say something more, something truer—but he stopped himself. His hand twitched, then dropped back to his side.

  “…Then don’t do it alone,” he said at last.

  I nodded once.

  Together, we turned back toward the heart of Bredford—two shadows moving through a city that was about to remember what fear felt like, and who it truly belonged to.

  ***

  I pulled the donkey mask over my face.

  The world narrowed.

  “Elijah,” I whispered.

  Something twisted inside me—like a knot being pulled tight and then let go. Heat rippled through my chest, down my arms, into my legs. I staggered once, caught myself, and then I was walking again, steady and certain.

  The burned cathedral steps loomed ahead—blackened stone, shattered glass, scorch marks climbing the walls like grasping fingers. Smoke still lingered in the cracks, the smell of ash and incense hanging heavy in the air.

  A murmur rippled through the square.

  Heads turned.

  Someone gasped.

  “The Beggar Lord is here!”

  The words spread faster than fire. People gathered—not rushing, not fleeing—but watching. Some climbed onto the steps and sat. Others stood shoulder to shoulder, wary but curious. Mothers pulled children close. Old men leaned on canes. Vendors abandoned their carts.

  The guards moved to advance.

  And stopped.

  Not because of me—but because the crowd stepped in front of them.

  Hands rose. Voices barked. Someone shouted, “Let him speak!” Another added, “You didn’t stop them before!”

  The guards froze, fear flickering behind their helms—not of the mask, but of the people they were sworn to control.

  The voice inside me rose, steady and resonant, carrying across the square.

  “Friends,” I said, “I am not here to ask for your tithes.”

  A few uneasy laughs. Bitter ones.

  “I am not here for your daughters.”

  The air tightened.

  “I am here to offer only a lesson.”

  Silence fell.

  I turned slowly, letting them see the burned stone, the shattered doors, the place where Rosa’s blood had once stained the steps.

  “Who is closest to the Father?” I asked.

  “Pontiff Ulrich!” someone shouted from the crowd.

  Others nodded. Murmured agreement.

  I tilted my head beneath the mask.

  “No,” I said gently. “No, that cannot be.”

  Confusion rippled through them.

  “They tell you he labors for you,” I continued. “Cries for you. Sends your prayers upward like coins dropped into a box.”

  A bitter chuckle escaped someone in the crowd.

  “But tell me—if he is so close to the Father… why must he live behind walls?”

  Why must he be guarded by swords?”

  Why must your prayers pass through his hands first?”

  The crowd shifted. Faces hardened.

  “The Father,” I said, voice rising now, “does not need a pontiff to hear you.”

  A woman near the front pressed a hand to her chest.

  “He does not need your sweat to build him palaces.”

  “He does not need your hunger to prove your faith.”

  I spread my arms wide.

  “For He is already beside you.”

  My hand rose, two fingers pressing to my chest.

  “He is in the trees you walk beneath.”

  “In the water you drink.”

  “In the air filling your lungs right now.”

  I tapped my chest once more.

  “He is here with you.”

  A murmur swelled—fear, hope, anger, recognition colliding all at once.

  Some wept.

  Some nodded.

  Some clenched their fists.

  Behind the crowd, the guards stood unmoving, trapped by the very people they once commanded.

  And beneath the mask, my heart thundered—not with rage this time, but with something far more dangerous.

  Belief.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “The Pontiff would have you bow to him as if he were a king!” I shouted, my voice cracking through the square like a whip.

  Murmurs swelled. Anger flickered across faces already raw from loss and hunger.

  “He would demand your obedience,” I continued, pointing toward the blackened cathedral behind me. “He would have you fear him. Serve him. Bleed for him.”

  I let the words hang before driving the knife deeper.

  “But our Sovereign Lord above asks for none of that.”

  The square went still.

  “He does not ask you to kneel before a man,” I said. “He asks only that you worship Him alone—that your faith be placed where it belongs.”

  I pressed my hand to my chest again.

  “For the Father is with you in hard times.”

  A woman in the crowd nodded, tears streaking her face.

  “He is with you in death.”

  A man lowered his head.

  “He is with you in your joys,” I finished. “In the laughter of your children. In the bread you break together. He is there.”

  A voice rose from the crowd, trembling but honest. “Then what does He want from us?”

  I looked toward the sound and saw a laborer, hands cracked and scarred, eyes searching.

  “To show him you love him,” I answered.

  Another voice—small, clear, unafraid—cut through the air.

  “How do we do that?”

  I saw the boy near the front, clutching his mother’s sleeve, eyes wide beneath tangled hair.

  I knelt so I was closer to their level, the donkey mask staring back at him.

  “By treating others with kindness,” I said gently. “As you would want to be treated.”

  Faces softened. Shoulders eased.

  “By defending your fellow man when times are hard.”

  A woman reached for her neighbor’s hand.

  “By feeding the hungry.”

  A murmur of agreement spread.

  “By sheltering the lost.”

  A man nodded sharply.

  “And by loving one another,” I finished. “Even when it is difficult. Especially when it is difficult.”

  The square breathed together—one body, one heartbeat.

  “That,” I said quietly, rising to my feet, “is how you honor the Father.”

  For a long moment, no one spoke.

  Then someone whispered, “He speaks the truth.”

  Another voice followed. Then another.

  And as the morning light crept over the rooftops of Bredford, the crowd no longer looked at the cathedral for guidance.

  They looked at each other

  The man in white stepped forward from the crowd.

  His robes were still clean despite the smoke. His hands bore no calluses. Oil gleamed on his forehead where he had anointed himself only hours before. He walked with the practiced certainty of someone used to being obeyed.

  A clergyman.

  He stopped a few paces from me, eyes hard, jaw tight with indignation.

  “You speak pretty words,” he said, voice carrying across the square, “but the Father’s house lies in ruin behind you.” He gestured sharply to the blackened cathedral. “What you preach is chaos.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd.

  “Isn’t this what you caused?” he continued. “You speak of kindness and love, yet people died by your hand. Stones thrown. Blades drawn. This temple defiled.”

  He took another step closer, emboldened.

  “Treat others the way you want to be treated?” he scoffed. “You lie, heretic.”

  The word rang out like a slap.

  “You incited violence. You spilled blood. You burned holy ground.” His finger jabbed toward my chest. “What say you, blasphemer?”

  For a moment, I said nothing.

  The crowd leaned in, breath held. Guards shifted uneasily. Even the bells seemed to have gone quiet.

  When I spoke again, my voice no longer thundered.

  It cut.

  “You ask me what I say?” I replied calmly.

  I stepped down one step, then another, until we stood nearly eye to eye.

  “I say the Father’s house was already in ruins long before the fire ever touched it.”

  A gasp swept through the square.

  “You think the Father asked His children to lash one another over coin?” I continued, my words precise, merciless. “To hang one another for speaking truth?”

  The clergyman opened his mouth, but no sound came.

  “You think He commanded you to tear young daughters from their parents’ arms and call it holy?” My voice hardened. “To dress theft in scripture?”

  I took another step forward.

  “You are not the Father’s son,” I said, pointing at him now, “but a tool of the Devil.”

  The crowd erupted—shouts, cries, outrage, agreement colliding all at once.

  “You glorify yourselves in glass-paneled halls,” I went on, the mask staring him down, “while the people starve in the streets outside your doors.”

  His face flushed red with fury. “You dare—”

  “I'm just getting started,” I cut in, relentless now. “You have misused the Father’s name for your own gain. You have twisted faith into chains.”

  Something inside me stirred—hot, ancient, wrathful—but I held it just beneath the surface.

  “These palaces,” I said, sweeping my arm toward the cathedral, “are not the houses of holy men.”

  The words came out low. Final.

  “They are nothing but dens of robbers.”

  Silence crashed down.

  The clergyman stood frozen, mouth trembling, his authority stripped bare in front of the people he claimed to shepherd.

  And for the first time, they did not look to him for answers.

  “Heretic! Blasphemer! You devil—you incite chaos!”

  He pointed at me, arm shaking, spittle flecking the stones at our feet. His eyes darted to the crowd, searching desperately for outrage, for comfort, for someone to stand with him.

  None came.

  I tilted my head beneath the mask.

  “Devil?” I repeated quietly.

  My voice rose—not in volume, but in weight.

  “You are the ones who stole the Father’s glory from Him.”

  A hush fell, thick and suffocating.

  “You bashed little ones against stone and called it treason.”

  My words struck like blows.

  “Tell me—what traitorous thoughts did children have?”

  A woman in the crowd sobbed aloud.

  “You hung mothers because they would not surrender their daughters to your Calling.”

  I pointed toward the cathedral.

  “You butchered fathers for daring to stand between your hands and their families.”

  The clergyman’s face went pale.

  “You did this,” I said. “Not in secret. Not in shame. But in daylight—twisting The Father's will.”

  I stepped closer.

  “So now tell me, clergyman—”

  my voice dropped, razor-sharp,

  “—which of us is the monster?”

  He opened his mouth. No words came.

  “Kill me for my words,” I continued, spreading my arms wide, exposing myself to blade and arrow alike. “Strike me down here if you must.”

  The crowd stirred—not backing away, but pressing closer.

  “And more will rise,” I said. “Not because of me—but because the truth does not die with one voice.”

  I pressed two fingers to my chest.

  “For the Father is with me.”

  Then I gestured to the people—farmers, mothers, laborers, children.

  “And He is with them.”

  My voice rang out across the square, final and unyielding.

  “They are His people.”

  The clergyman stood trembling, surrounded not by a mob—but by the judgment of those he had ruled through fear.

  And for the first time, he understood:

  He was alone.

  The guards moved at last.

  Two of them seized the clergyman by the arms, not roughly, but with a haste born of fear—fear not of him, but of the crowd. They pulled him back from the steps as his composure finally shattered.

  “Don’t listen to him!” he screamed, voice breaking as he was dragged away. “The Father demands obedience to the Clergy! Obedience! Obedience!”

  His words echoed thinly now, stripped of power. Faces followed him as he was escorted through the square—faces that did not bow, did not kneel, did not avert their eyes. They watched him the way one watches a man unmasked.

  Judging.

  A silence settled as the guards disappeared with him down a side street. Smoke drifted lazily past the cathedral’s broken doors. Somewhere, glass crunched underfoot.

  All eyes turned back to me.

  I felt it then—not the heat of the SIN, not the fury that had driven me here—but something quieter, heavier. Expectation. Hope. Hunger.

  A voice near the front spoke, soft but clear.

  “Thank you, Beggar Lord.”

  The words rippled outward, murmured again and again. Gratitude. Reverence. The dangerous beginning of devotion.

  The voice within me stirred, but this time it did not roar. It steadied me.

  I raised my hand.

  “I am no lord,” I said, the words deliberate, firm. “And I am no saint.”

  The murmurs faltered.

  “My friends,” I continued, scanning their faces—farmers, laborers, mothers clutching children, men with scars still fresh from lashings—“I do not ask for your worship.”

  A few people exchanged glances, confused.

  “Do not make me what you have made the Pontiff,” I said. “Do not trade one idol for another.”

  I tapped my chest once, then gestured outward to them all.

  “Give that glory to the Father alone.”

  A woman near the steps nodded slowly, tears streaking her cheeks.

  “I speak only the truth as it was given to us,” I went on. “Remember what you felt here today. Remember that faith is not fear. That love is not chains. That obedience to men is not obedience to God.”

  The square was utterly still now.

  “When they tell you to bow,” I said quietly, “ask who benefits.”

  “When they tell you to give,” I added, “ask where it truly goes.”

  “And when they tell you the Father is far away—”

  I paused.

  “—remember that He is closer than your next breath.”

  I stepped back, descending the last of the cathedral steps.

  No one stopped me.

  No one reached out.

  They simply watched as I turned and walked away, slipping into the side streets of Bredford, the donkey mask still hiding my face.

  Behind me, the square did not erupt into cheers or chants.

  Instead, people spoke in low, urgent voices—arguing, questioning, remembering. Old wounds were being named aloud. Old lies tested against something that finally rang true.

  I glanced back once.

  Not at the cathedral.

  At the people.

  A fire had taken root in them—not wild, not raging, but steady and dangerous. The kind that does not burn itself out.

  And as I disappeared into the city’s veins, I knew this much with certainty:

  Bredford would never be the same again.