Alric noticed it.
The way the commander barely acknowledged Benedict as he led Alric toward the hall behind the courtyard. No words. Not even a glance.
When they reached the arched stone hallway, the commander opened a heavy wooden door—then stepped aside to let Alric in.
Benedict moved to follow.
But the commander turned, placed a firm hand on the doorframe, and shut the door in his path—leaving him outside without a word.
Inside, the hall was dim and quiet.
Alric stepped forward slowly… and stopped.
At the far end of the chamber, seated upon the high platform chair, was the Mother Reverend.
The sight of her made something tighten in his chest.
"How have you been, my child?" she asked gently, her voice warm and steady.
To her right stood Father Juandrez, hands folded in silent presence.
"I… I've been good," Alric blurted out.
The words escaped before he could stop them. No ceremony. No polish.
He immediately wished he could take them back. Something inside him winced.
But she only smiled.
That was worse, somehow.
He didn't understand why it happened—why his tongue always stumbled in front of her. He had survived slaughter. He had stood tall in the face of men twice his size, armed and blood-hungry.
He didn't need words to live. He had fought and killed in silence.
He had watched women scream in ways that silenced entire battlefields. He had heard the shrieks of falcons and crows feasting on the flesh of children, their cries mingling with those of dying men impaled on spikes, left to rot under the sun.
He had survived all that.
And yet… in front of this old woman, this soft voice and steady gaze, he felt like a child with blood still under his fingernails.
It was like she could see it all.
His memories. His scars. The blood that wouldn't wash off. And still—she smiled, not with pity, but with something deeper.
Sympathy. Understanding. Grace.
"I'm here to awaken your divine authority," she said.
Her voice was steady, warm. Timeless.
"Every blessed soul carries divinity within—dormant, but unmistakably present."
She beckoned gently.
And Alric, despite himself, stepped closer. As if his legs answered her before his mind did.
"Most young men come to the cathedrals early, to be tested and trained," she explained. Her voice softened, like a mother teaching a stubborn child. "They build their bodies slowly… alongside their souls."
He stood before her now.
She raised her hand—not to ruffle his hair, not to caress like that women had in the garden—but simply to rest her palm upon his head.
Still. Centered. Sacred.
"It's good that you've trained your body. You're already strong… but your power's been waiting far too long."
She looked at him with that same unwavering smile, and for a heartbeat, he felt something like safety.
"This will hurt," she said, almost kindly.
Then the warmth began.
It spread from her hand—slow at first, like the touch of a sunbeam. But quickly, it turned.
From warm to searing. From searing to agony.
It was as if he'd swallowed coals.
The power surged through his head and spilled downward, pouring through his veins, burning through muscle, ligament, bone. He felt the current push with purpose—like it knew where it was going, even through pathways long blocked and choked with old pain.
Every muscle screamed. Every breath came sharp and shallow. His limbs went numb.
His vision swam.
The red sun outside felt as though it had been pressed into his skin, buried deep and set ablaze.
Then something inside his skull snapped—a dam burst, and the real torrent came pouring through.
Blood dripped from his nose, welled in the corner of his mouth, and trailed from his ears.
Every nerve sang with pain. Or maybe it was that pain had consumed everything else—even thought, even sense.
"Just a little longer," the Mother Reverend whispered above him. "Good child. Just a little more."
He held on.
Barely.
Then came the second wall—in his neck, near the base of his throat. Another barrier, another gate.
The divine heat pressed against it—not with force, but persistence, like water wearing down stone.
Time vanished. There was only pressure. Pressure and pain.
Until at last—it broke.
And the power surged into his chest.
Alric couldn't take it.
He collapsed.
The Mother Reverend moved quickly. She raised her hand, severing the divine flow just in time to prevent serious harm—though even that caused her to flinch.
Still, she caught him from where she sat as he fell. His arms flailed once, then grasped her shoulder weakly.
His weight dropped into her, and his face came to rest above her maternal chest, head tilted, breathing ragged. She gently placed a hand against his back, steadying him.
From the edge of the room, Captain Bryan and Father Juandrez rushed forward in horror.
"Mother—!" they called.
"It's fine," she said softly, still smiling, still holding him.
Alric groaned faintly in her arms, curling into her touch as though seeking warmth. His fists closed weakly around the fabric of her robes.
"With how long his blockages have been building," she murmured, "it's remarkable he lasted through two. Most would've lost consciousness at the first."
Captain Bryan looked like he was about to drag the boy off by the hair.
To him—and to Juandrez—it was unthinkable.
The Mother Reverend was the holiest living being in the kingdom. Her purity was legendary. Even kings bowed to kiss her hand—and here this boy was, bleeding onto her robes, collapsed in her embrace.
It was blasphemy, dressed as a miracle.
"Take him to rest," she said, her tone unshaken. "Speak to him about the awakening when he wakes."
Captain Bryan stepped forward readily. She shifted her weight and gently unwrapped Alric's arms from her body—fingers by finger, with maternal care.
He didn't stir.
Bryan cradled the boy's limp form. He noticed something immediately—the bleeding had stopped. The boy's face was calm now, his features smooth and untroubled.
She had already healed him.
The captain's stomach turned. Not from disgust, but from something closer to envy.
Mother hadn't needed to awaken him personally. She hadn't needed to catch him. She hadn't needed to heal him, either.
But she had done all three.
And as he turned to carry the boy away, Bryan could only think one thing:
This boy was luckier than any king.