Inside the church, more commonly known as Archeko's cathedral, numerous candles were lit up near the altar, serving as light and gratitude from those who attended the last mass that was hosted none other than by the head priest, Chris. 

He walked down the altar, looking around—the rain had halted, only the small droplets were heard. He also heard the thudding of a carriage—and that burning sensation had returned. His gaze focused outside through the murky window, painted with beautiful colours, which depicted an image of Mary holding baby Jesus. He could feel his heart beating louder, as if wanting to escape from his own cavity. 

Thud, thud, thud—the footsteps outside mimicked his own rhythm. No one should be here right now, especially after he had set up the barrier to protect his own sacred space and his followers. However, the way it trembled as if something sinister, of horror had entered…

Chris knew something wasn't right. The Seventh Trumpet was near yet accompanied by something that was born out of sin—of malice. Perhaps, it came from the Gehenna Gates—where those who strayed stayed. 

The frankincense used in earlier mass still emitted that smell—that comforting smell, bringing those who experienced it closer to God. It was calming, and refreshing—sweet, and citrusy, yet also earthy and woody. It was one of the priests’ favourites, bringing him solace whenever he needed it.

His eyes scanned the row of pews that was full of believers earlier. The night was nearly about to bid its farewell, and the day would say its greetings once again. Once it does, he would have to conduct either a mass or another class. He'd rather do the latter. Despite being a priest, he always found himself tired and lethargic every mass due to socialising—it wasn't his strongest forte. 

His legs brought him to the receiving area, where the cathedral’s door, made of wood, carved with intricate religious design, loomed over him. He hadn't heard a knock, but he could feel a presence approaching. The Trumpet on his pocket illuminated brightly. It felt like a handful of sand had gotten to his throat, and his lips were dry once he heard that knock. 

Knock, knock. 

Most of his followers are asleep; only he and perhaps Salome, who was currently in her room, were awake. His mind debated whether to receive and open the door for this person or, perhaps, would it be better to leave it closed? 

But this was the house of God. He cannot just turn those who begged to be saved away—even if it was born out of a sin, of malice, and the fact that the Trumpet continued to shine told him what he needed to know—

That one of the Trumpets was near, and perhaps it lies outside of this door. Muffled noises echoed as another set of knocking was heard—this time, four.

Knock, knock, knock, knock. 

It was faster than before. His nervous tick had started; he held the cross necklace that hung on his neck briefly before whispering a quick prayer for himself. He then stepped closer, enough for those outside to hear his voice.

“Who's out there?” 

“Sorry for bothering you, Father Chris—this is Matthias—”

But before he could even finish his sentence, the priest immediately unlatched the door—not caring if it was true, or if it was the devil, whispering sweet nothings to his ear—poking at his vulnerability. 

The intricate wooden door swung open faster than Matthias could react. 

The coldness that wrapped him with care was dispelled gently, once he met Chris’ tired and desperate eyes—widened, beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, threatening to fall to the wooden floor. It wanted to stain it—stain it with his worry now replaced with relief, seeing that the young man is safe and secured. 

Once they laid eyes on each other, there was a sense of comfort, a relief that only two of them felt. It was a feeling that the young man could not put his finger on, but it was different from how he felt when they talked. That talk where Matthias abruptly left, not giving him a chance to explain. 

It was as if the world itself became a blur. The droplets of the rain had faded away from the background as his attention went to the tired priest in front of him. Matthias’ heart ached seeing him this way. He knew it wasn't his fault. But there was something that grazed his heart, that—

He should have stayed and listened, and perhaps all those events—witnessing his friend dying, getting arrested, then thrown to the dungeon; all of that wouldn't have happened had he listened. 

Regret. That was the name of the feeling that gnawed at his whole being. 

“...I see that the head priest can't even offer a proper welcome to its guests?” Henry's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. 

“...I see that a rich noble like yourself has lost a screw and refuses to follow the ordained time allocated for such visits?” Chris looked at the man coldly, eyes filled with no care—only contempt, well hidden beneath his abyss. 

Matthias could feel the hostility in such a simple exchange; it was clear to him that these two men do not get along and, probably, never will. Perhaps feeling responsible for them both, he uttered:

“Uhm, it's kinda cold. Could we please head inside and dry for a bit? I want to talk to you about something, Father Chris. Henry and June helped me get here, so I'm really grateful for them.” His voice caused all the men to look at him.

How a simple sentence from him was enough to make them just nod begrudgingly. 

“...alright. I'll let it pass for this time, but remember this won't happen again.” Chris led them inside, the intricate wooden doors—like it had its own mind—slammed shut after all of them were inside. 

With every step they took, it echoed—like a hymn, low and deep. The citrusy, yet spicy, smell enveloped their whole being, attaching itself like a protection. Like a silent guardian, comforting to most, but scorching for some. The wooden floor bent now and then beneath their weight as Chris led them to the visitor area, like a hierophant leading its own excursion to either salvation or extinction, one or another. 

In this country, the lines between the good and bad had been obscured as all citizens became mixed of both, as they sought to discern the lies from the truth.