Sun shone on Seraphiel’s back as she stood at the front of the grand cathedral. His long, wavy, pale-blonde hair frames his small face like spun gold. Befitting of the High Priest, a man in his prime. He had more duties than blessing babies or comforting orphans the church gained from the recent disaster that the winter season brought, but he was there nevertheless with a soft smile. 

Noble ladies lined up at the pews just to get a glance at him–the priest himself brought spectacle wherever he went.

“He truly is an angel sent here, isn’t he?” a lady says, furiously fanning herself before speaking to her companion who says, “Especially him and Saintess Evangeline…it’s like seeing a moving painting.” The saintess Evangeline was a vision, standing with her black hair partially obscured by her sheer veil, her grey eyes staring serenely. 

It isn’t until they’re alone in his private quarters, that Seraphiel unravels–his smile that didn’t ever quite meet his eyes fades the moment the heavy oak doors close with a thud behind him. He threw off his ornate robe with a huff, his full lips pouting–a junior priest hurriedly snatches up the garment.

Younger priests and saints come in and out of the office while Seraphiel goes on his usual rants; “This holier than thou charade is exhausting,” he mutters, his blue eyes glaring at a young fledgling who was scurrying about with bundles of fabric. “Watch it! That fabric is worth more than your pathetic life!”

“To think I must bless those sniveling brats, while she’s missing.” 

The only one that was missing was The Eternal Child. Evangline’s lips curve into a mocking smile. That child–no, that woman has been the object of his obsessions for years now. But perhaps, said obsession can be useful in her plans.

“You’re still pining for that ill-bred lamb, Seraphiel? She’ll come back, sooner or later. That ow she was made to be, remember?” Seraphiel looks at her before sighing. You’re right, I don’t know what I’m anxious about.”

A knock at the door cuts off their conversation–an older nun, holding ab scrolls says softly and bowing, “Forgive me High Priest, Saintess. There’s some news regarding Duke Aethelstan.” Saintess takes the scrolls before he can speak, her eyes looking over the message. Her lips slowly curl in a smile as she throws the letter to Seraphiel.  

“Ah, Sir Seraphiel. We have news from the Aethestan estate. He’s remarried–to some common wench named Giselle.”