Cornelius paced near the broken altar, gloves dark with soot and iron. “I don’t trust him,” he said, voice clipped.

Francesca, standing nearby, arms crossed, didn’t blink. “You don’t trust anyone.”

“I trust what I see,” he replied, eyes cutting toward the shadows where Dantes stood. “And what I see is a man who kills like it’s muscle memory.”

From the edge of the shattered nave, Dantes leaned against a moss-covered column, calmly wiping his blade with an old cloth.

“You’re welcome,” he said, not looking up. “For keeping your spine attached to your body.”

Cornelius narrowed his eyes. “You could be working with them. Waiting for the next ambush.”

Dantes smirked. “Please. I’d ask for better pay first.”

He glanced briefly at Alberta. A half-second. Nothing more.

But Cornelius saw it.

“I’m going with you,” he said suddenly.

Francesca turned. “What?”

Cornelius didn’t flinch. “I’ll join your journey. Until I figure out what exactly he is.”

Dantes slid his blade back into its sheath with a satisfying click.

“Royal babysitting,” he muttered. “Charming.”

He tilted his head toward Alberta, smiling faintly. “Don’t worry, Princess. We’ve got a whole circus now.”

The night air was cool against Alberta’s skin. She stood near the old well, its stones overgrown, its depths swallowed by silence.

Ceasare stepped into the scene like a dream.

His cloak caught the moonlight, casting him in silver. His face calm, voice velvet.

“You shouldn’t wander off,” he said gently. “Father’s worried sick.”

“I didn’t run,” Alberta murmured. “I needed to find something.”

He moved closer.

Then reached for her hand—slowly, reverently—like she was a relic he’d spent years praying to.

“I’ll send word to him,” he said. “Just a short message. So he sleeps tonight.”

Alberta tensed. “No.”

His hand paused. “Why?”

“If he knows,” she said, “so will others.”

Ceasare’s fingers tightened slightly around hers. “He has the right to know.”

“And I have the right to stay hidden.”

They stood there in stillness. The breeze stirred her veil. The candlelight in the sanctuary flickered behind them like a dying heartbeat.

Ceasare's expression didn’t change. It remained kind. Serene.

But Francesca, watching from the shadows near the stone arch, saw the tension in his jaw.

She said nothing.

She didn’t trust saints who smiled too easily 

---

Later that night, the bell tower groaned in the wind.

Then the mist moved.

It curled low across the town square like something alive—like breath from the mouth of a god long forgotten.

The bells began to sway.

But they didn’t chime.

They whispered.

Dantes froze.

Francesca turned sharply. “Do you hear that?”

Cornelius drew his blade. “Something’s here.”

The ground near the altar cracked.

Something rose from the shadows—long-limbed, hollow-eyed, its body made of the same ash that clung to the town like grief.

A Wane beast—born from silence and regret.

It let out a sound like bells tolling underwater.

Ceasare pulled Alberta behind him.

Like a savior.

Like a saint.

“Don’t move,” he whispered.

Dantes lunged first. Francesca followed, blade in hand. Cornelius moved to block the other path, eyes gleaming.

Alberta’s heart thundered.

Ceasare’s hand stayed steady on her back—but Francesca’s eyes met hers across the chaos.

And in that moment, Alberta saw it:

Not trust.

Not hope.

But warning.