“Don’t you have to kill that priest?” Ange snaps. “With all the sugar he eats, he gets impatient. Lemres doesn’t want to wait.”

  The man looks down at the seemingly dead body and lets out a quiet, annoyed sigh.

  “Very well.”

  He turns and leaves without another word.

  As he steps out of the building, Lemres slips from a pocket of shadow to intercept him, portal-light flickering along his Mahoishi like a warning pulse.

  “So, Sid,” Lemres says, voice flat, “you think you can follow the plan?”

  Sid doesn’t hesitate. He’s already walking toward the distant church spire. “Yeah. It’s a shame Ange already killed Markus. I was looking forward to it.”

  Lemres grabs his shoulder, stopping him cold.

  “What? Why would you say that?” Lemres demands, eyes narrowing. “You were never supposed to kill Markus.”

  Sid tilts his head slowly, as if the question doesn’t make sense.

  “I remember it differently.”

  Lemres’s throat tightens. Something is wrong—off—like gears in Sid’s mind aren’t turning the same way anymore. He glances back just in time to see the building behind them ripple and fade to nothing, as if it had never existed at all.

  He exhales, long and strained.

  “Be careful,” Lemres says. “Don’t let yourself be seen. And don’t kill anyone except the priest. Do you understand?”

  A portal snaps open beside him before Sid answers. Lemres steps through without waiting for confirmation, vanishing into the rift.

  Sid stands alone on the empty street, the air humming around him with quiet, ominous intent.

  He turns toward the church that looms above all of Fey Town, its spire cutting the sky like a blade. Without slowing, he walks straight inside.

  The priest is already mid-sermon, voice booming through the sanctuary:

  “Finally, be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power. Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes…”

  Sid slips into a seat near the back.

  He listens.

  He waits.

  The words wash over Sid, familiar and hollow, each one tightening the coil in his chest. He keeps his head bowed, hands still, eyes forward.

  His time will come.

  “That armor will protect us when we take action against the so-called Dragon Slayer,” the priest announces, voice steady and unshaken. “If that is even his real name.”

  A pause follows. Long enough for suspicion to bloom in every mind in the room.

  “And against the demon,” he continues, “that is introducing influences into our world that do not belong to us.”

  He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The quiet conviction in it chills more effectively than shouting ever could.

  “We are not driven by hatred,” the priest says. “We are driven by responsibility. By the need to protect who we are, and what we pass on to our children.”

  Several heads nod, shoulders straightening, backs stiffening in agreement.

  “That demon cannot love,” he says calmly. “Not in the way we understand love. And it is not cruelty to acknowledge that difference. It is honesty.”

  His hands spread outward in practiced serenity.

  “And God will be honored through restraint and resolve. Through our willingness to act—if conflict follows, that burden does not rest on us.”

  A faint, careful smile stretches across his lips.

  “We did not start this war. We are simply prepared to finish it.”

  The congregation erupts.

  People rise from their seats almost in unison, applause building into a chant that rattles the stained-glass windows.

  “Death to the demon!”

  Sid exhales slowly.

  “I may not like Markus,” he mutters, “but this…”

  The chant swells again—loud, certain, as if the vaulted ceiling itself is in on the promise.

  A promise made far too easily.

  When the service ends. The crowd filters out with casual cheer, chatting about errands and dinner plans as if they hadn’t just pledged violence. The priest remains at the altar, basking in the fading chorus of approval.

  When the service ends, the crowd drifts out as if discussing weather, dinner, the week ahead.

  Their cheerfulness is almost grotesque, considering what they’d just shouted.

  Sid stays seated, watching them fade into the daylight.

  Only when the sanctuary falls silent does he rise.

  He approaches the altar, each step measured, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the vast empty room.

  “Hey.”

  The word lands flat. Cold. Final.

  The priest turns. Recognition flashes across Priest Urban’s eyes—then vanishes behind a twitch of instinct.

  His hand snaps for his waist.

  Steel glints in the dim light.

  Sid doesn’t flinch.

  “Never imagined a man of God would carry a weapon,” he says, almost bored.

  Priest Urban lunges.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The knife arcs forward with desperate, trembling force, a full-body thrust aimed straight for Sid’s heart.

  Sid raises only one hand.

  He catches the blade barehanded.

  Metal meets red fingers.

  The steel stops dead.

  A shriek rips from the knife as the metal warps and buckles under Sid’s grip, crushed like tin foil.

  “I thought the Church of the Rapture was all about dying,” Sid says, tilting his head. “You should feel honored.”

  The priest struggles, panic finally cracking the preacher’s practiced calm.

  “I need to see the dragon return!” Urban shouts. “If that Dragon Slayer hadn’t interfered—”

  Sid cuts him off with a weary sigh.

  “You talk too much.”

  He opens his hand.

  And reality tears.

  A black hole blossoms from Sid’s palm, gravity screaming as the air is ripped from the room. Candles explode. Benches skid across the floor. Scripture pages tear free and whirl like dying birds caught in a storm.

  The priest spins and runs.

  He doesn’t make it three steps.

  The pull is absolute. His scream stretches thin, then snaps, vanishing as he’s dragged backward, feet lifting off the ground, body folding into the void as if swallowed by night itself.

  Then the black hole collapses with a sharp, final snap.

  Silence slams into the sanctuary.

  Dust drifts through fractured beams of colored light spilling from shattered stained glass. Saints lie broken in jagged pieces across the floor, their painted halos reduced to shards beneath Sid’s boots.

  Benches are overturned and splintered, dragged by the impossible force. Torn hymnals carpet the aisle, verses scattered like forgotten prayers.

  Sid lowers his hand.

  “…Amen,” he mutters.

  He stands alone in the ruined church, the devastation around him echoing like a confession the building itself cannot bear.

  He breathes out once—slow, controlled—then turns away and walks down the aisle, each step crunching through glass, wood, and ash.

  Outside, the holy walls sag, barely standing.

  The world remains blissfully unaware of what unfolded within.

  Sid looks toward a lone tree on a nearby hill.

  Lemres leans against it, calmly eating a chocolate bar as if he’s arrived early to a show he already knows the ending to.

  Without exchanging a word, Sid and Lemres turn and leave Fey Town behind, slipping away before anyone dares step toward the church to investigate.

  A portal opens, swallowing the world around them.

  They reappear in front of Sid’s house—familiar, quiet, mundane—its stillness at odds with the reality that has just violently shifted.

  Sid breaks the silence, voice almost too calm.

  “Did that really end the war before it started?”

  “I think so,” Lemres replies. “I’ll place a puppet in position and we can slowly turn things around

  They start toward the house.

  “Your job is done,” Lemres adds casually. “I’ll make sure you and Alexia get a cake once this is all over.”

  The words hang in the air—light, ordinary—brushing against the crushing weight of what they’ve just done.

  When Sid steps through the door, he hears her instantly.

  “Heya, Sid.”

  Alexia rushes toward him, wearing one of his shirts and little else, bare feet whispering across the floor. She leaps into his arms, wrapping herself around his neck and peppering his face with quick kisses. Her smile is warm, bright, painfully genuine.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” she says softly. “I changed into something more comfortable.”

  Sid’s expression finally eases.

  “You know I like it.”

  He lifts her without effort, carrying her to the couch as she laughs against his shoulder. Their lips meet again and again—small kisses, eager ones—never quite breaking as he lowers her onto the cushions and follows her down.

  He kisses along her neck, lingering longer than necessary, as if grounding himself through her warmth.

  “It’s nice to be with you,” he murmurs. “I was worried.”

  On the couch, Sid shifts his weight, bracing himself above her.

  “Oh, you’re really into this,” Alexia teases, her hands sliding to rest against his chest, feeling the tension beneath.

  “I love you,” he says quietly. “And… there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  She blinks up at him, curiosity sparking.

  “Maybe,” he continues, a faint blush creeping across his face, “we could talk about marriage.”

  He takes her hands in his—fingers lacing together—waiting.

  Alexia’s breath catches. Her eyes widen for a heartbeat before her smile blooms, bright and unguarded, spilling warmth across her face.

  “Marriage?” she whispers. “That sounds wonderful. I do.”

  She pulls him down into a kiss, holding him close as if afraid the moment might slip away.

  “This is a dream come true.”

  Sid holds her there, leaning closer until his breath brushes her skin.

  “You wouldn’t have to go on adventures anymore,” he says softly. “You wouldn’t need to see Markus… or anyone else.”

  Alexia stiffens beneath him.

  “Wait. What?”

  He kisses her before she can say anything else, swallowing the protest.

  “He’s dangerous,” Sid says when he pulls back, forcing a calm that doesn’t reach his eyes. He pushes the image of Markus’s broken body out of his mind. “He’s going to get himself killed someday. It’d be better if he didn’t drag you with him.”

  “But we do good together,” Alexia manages, the words tumbling out too fast, too unsure. “We save people.”

  Sid doesn’t answer.

  He kisses her neck instead, slow and deliberate, long enough to make her breath hitch and her thoughts blur, long enough for hesitation to feel heavier than agreement.

  “Maybe we could have a kid someday,” he murmurs. “If you wanted that.”

  Alexia swallows hard. She’s still pinned beneath him, caught between warmth and a creeping wrongness she can’t quite name.

  “Oh… you mean going to bed?” she asks quietly, trying to understand him through the haze.

  She shifts under him, overwhelmed, torn between instinct and doubt.

  “Okay,” she whispers at last, voice soft and uncertain. “Okay… make me yours.”

  Sid leans in until she feels his breath on her neck. Her body responds with an involuntary gasp—

  Then he pulls away.

  He sits back, reaches for the remote, and clicks on the TV. The screen flickers to life like nothing had happened.

  “You tease,” Alexia breathes, half-laughing, half-exhausted. She pushes herself upright, tugging playfully at the hem of his shirt. “I thought we were going to—don’t make me wait until the honeymoon.”

  Sid smiles faintly and taps her nose.

  “We can,” he says. “If you’re good.”

  Before Alexia can answer, the television shifts to a breaking news alert.

  A solemn anchor fills the screen, their voice heavy.

  “Authorities are still investigating the death of Priest Urban. The destruction left behind suggests a force beyond conventional explanation. Members of the church believe the incident to be an act of Satanic influence.”

  Alexia’s attention shifts toward the glowing screen, her body instinctively leaning away from Sid as her mind snaps into focus. Sid settles beside her, quiet, unreadable.

  “Today,” the reporter continues, “we’ll be speaking with senior members of the congregation, including the individual acting as interim leader until a replacement is chosen.”

  The room dims, lit only by the flickering blue of the broadcast.

  A man appears on screen, standing at a podium. His voice is calm, dangerously so:

  “We will find a way to Hell. No—sorry, I can’t say that anymore. Heyl. We will reach the demons and wipe them out. The next great war is coming soon.”

  Sid immediately switches off the TV.

  “Looks like Lemres’s job isn’t over yet,” he says quietly.

  Alexia shifts beside him, the silence widening between them.

  “Oh—that reminds me. I should check on Markus and—”

  Sid pulls her close before she can finish.

  “I thought you wanted to have some fun in bed.”

  There’s no sharpness in his voice—just a soft insistence that rolls over her like a blanket too heavy to push off.

  Before she can gather her thoughts, he sweeps her off the couch and into his arms. The world outside fades as he carries her toward the bedroom, the door closing behind them with a gentle click.

  “I just want to keep you safe,” Sid murmurs, pressing a slow kiss against her lips. “Make sure we have a long life together.”

  He lays her on the bed, and Alexia lets out a small laugh—warm, nervous, unsure. Sid stretches beside her, pulling her close until the outside world feels far away.

  Beyond the walls, Fey Town shifts toward war.

  But inside this room, they cling to the illusion of safety—

  two people telling themselves the future is something they can outrun, or reshape, if they just hold onto each other tightly enough.

  For now, they pretend they’re ready for whatever comes next.