I glance back at Cassian.

I give him the absolute smuggest I fucking told you so look—the kind that says this is exactly the situation I warned you about, the one where my life gets put on the line and I don’t have anything resembling a safety net.

Then I breeze past him into the house, lifting two fingers in a lazy salute as I go.

The door shuts behind me, cutting off Cassian’s reach, Rook’s sightlines—everything.

The latch settles with a soft, final thud.

I’m alone in the hut with the old man.

Inside, the house is warm and dim. Candles line the walls, their flames steady. Bundles of dried herbs hang from rafters—some familiar, some not. The chalk markings on the floor form a loose circle, scuffed from repeated use.

The old man watches me closely as he latches the door.

“You walk like someone who’s lied for a living,” he says. Not accusing. Observational.

He moves to a low table and sets a kettle back over a small flame. Steam curls upward.

“And like someone who’s been sick of it for a long time.”

He gestures to a stool. “Sit.”

The house settles around me—quiet, shielded, deliberately unnoticed by the world outside.

Whatever this man is—he’s not a villager.

And he’s not afraid of me.

“And you act like someone who’s seen a lot of death, and never wants to have to see it again,” I say flatly, sitting on the stool with a familiarity that makes no sense given it’s my first time in the place.

The old man pauses with the kettle in his hands.

For a moment, he just looks at me—really looks. Then he sets it down slowly.

“…That’s not a common read,” he says.

He pulls a chair back with his foot and sits opposite me, elbows on his knees. Up close, I can see the scars on his hands. Burns. Old cuts. Tremors he doesn’t bother hiding.

“I buried a village once,” he says. “Didn’t mean to. Meant to save it.”

Silence stretches. The kettle begins to whisper.

“I stopped wearing symbols after that,” he adds, nodding toward the bare walls. “Stopped answering to titles. People still come. Quieter ones. Desperate ones.”

He meets my eyes again, steady.

“You’re not here for your mother,” he says. “But you’re not lying either.”

The kettle whistles. He reaches back, pours water into two chipped cups, slides one toward me.

“So,” he says, “tell me who taught you to lie like that—and what you’re really looking for.”

I take the cup graciously. “Necessity taught me how to lie. But what I need is a priest—or, more specifically, someone with purification magic.”

I lift the cup and inhale. “Mm. Chamomile. My favorite.”

I take a sip, letting the warmth settle in my chest before I look back up at him.

“I’m out to save the world.”

I say it casually. No need to embellish such an outlandish statement.

The old man watches me over the rim of his own cup.

He exhales through his nose, slow.

“Figures,” he says.

He takes a sip, then sets the cup aside untouched. “World’s always ending for someone. Usually the wrong people get sent to fix it.”

He stands and crosses the room, kneeling by a low chest tucked beneath a table. When he opens it, there’s no gold. No relics. Just wrapped cloth bundles and a strip of faded white fabric folded with care.

He doesn’t put it on.

“I don’t call myself a priest anymore,” he says. “Haven’t in years. Titles draw attention. Attention gets people killed.”

He turns back to me.

“But purification?” A small, humorless smile. “That never really leaves your hands.”

He reaches out—not touching me—and the air tightens slightly. Not pressure. Heat. Like standing too close to a hearth.

It fades as quickly as it came.

“I can cleanse surface corruption,” he continues. “Possession. Blight. Residue. Not people.”

A pause.

“And if demonkind’s moving again,” he adds, “then the Radiant Accord didn’t fall by accident.”

Outside, somewhere beyond the walls, I hear Cassian’s boots shift on stone.

The old man meets my eyes.

“You looking to recruit me,” he says, “or you looking to survive long enough to need me?”

I shrug. “I guess that depends on how far you can walk. What do you say, old man? Care to start a journey to the ends of the earth?”

The old man studies me for a long moment.

Then he snorts.

“Ends of the earth,” he repeats. “Ambitious. Reckless. Sounds familiar.”

He pushes himself to his feet with a grunt, joints protesting but holding. He crosses the room and pulls a worn cloak from a peg near the door—plain, travel-stained, patched more than once. He hesitates, then reaches into the chest again and takes the folded strip of white fabric.

He doesn’t put it on his head.

He wraps it around his wrist instead.

“I can walk,” he says. “Not fast. Not forever. But far enough to matter.”

He meets my eyes, expression steady, resolved.

“But we do this my way,” he adds. “No churches. No titles. No standing in the open ringing bells at demons.”

A beat.

“And if this really is the end of the world,” he says, dry, “I’d rather be moving than waiting for it.”

He reaches for the door.

“Name’s Iseph,” he says over his shoulder. “Former priest. Current problem.”

Light spills in as the door opens. I catch a glimpse of Cassian shifting outside, Rook already alert—ready for whatever comes next.

I finish my tea and set the cup down carefully.

“Guess we got ourselves a priest.” I say, and follow him out the door, pulling it shut tight behind me.