His right hand was glowing again. Faintly, but unmistakably. Even before the morning prayers began, the stigma on Viola's right palm had started to radiate a gentle warmth. (That's strange. Why this morning—) Viola covered her right hand with the sleeve of her robe. The pure white fabric, embroidered with silver thread, was the mark of the Saint. For eighteen years, she had worn nothing else. Every time she changed, the same thought came to her: this isn't clothing. It's armor. She walked down the corridor. Her footsteps echoed against the white marble, the sound swallowed by the high ceiling above. The morning of Seraphina Cathedral was quiet. But it wasn't an empty quiet. Nearly two hundred priests and attendants moved silently through the space. A priest replacing candles in the candelabra. An attendant carrying an incense burner. A young servant boy polishing the floor where prayers would be held. Each one performing their task, and yet—moving as if in perfect rhythm, creating the pulse of the space itself. Viola walked slowly down that corridor. The walls were lined with portraits of the Saints who had come before her. Counting from the first, Viola was the twelfth. Every face in those paintings wore the same expression: serene. Unwavering, quiet eyes. Faces where emotion had been carefully contained within. (Did they all look like this? Really?) Viola found herself wondering what her own face looked like now. But there were no mirrors in the corridor. The doors to the prayer chamber came into view. The large double doors were already slightly ajar. The scent of incense drifted out. --- The prayer chamber was vast. Viola's favorite sight in this place was the ceiling. Sixty meters high, the cathedral was crowned with stained glass. The goddess Soleia weeping, her tears soaking into the earth, white stone temples sprouting from the ground—the creation myth from twelve hundred years ago, rendered in countless colors of glass. When morning light poured through, the entire floor became a canvas of color. Blue, gold, green, red. The light fell across Viola's white robe as well. This morning, too, that light was beautiful. (... It's just an ordinary morning.) She told herself this as she took her place before the altar. The stigma on her right hand grew warm again, just slightly. Soon the faithful began to arrive. About three hundred people. The elderly, children, wounded soldiers, the sick. Every morning at this hour, the citizens of Soleil came to Seraphina Cathedral. The Saint's prayers were open to all. That was the rule of this place. "Saint, we are grateful for your blessing." The first to approach was a middle-aged man with his right arm in a sling. Viola nodded slightly and held her right palm over his injured arm. The stigma glowed. And then—pain came. The sensation of breaking bone. Dull and heavy. A throbbing ache radiating from deep within his arm. Viola accepted it silently. She bit her lip slightly. Her expression did not change. This was the nature of Soleia's sacred art. The pain and sickness of the one she touched flowed into the Saint's own body. If she kept her emotions flat, the power remained stable. But it was weak. If she wanted greater power—if she used it for someone she loved—the strength would multiply a hundredfold. But control would slip away. That was why Saints were required to live with their emotions suppressed. To not love. To not care. She had always done this. And Viola herself had always believed it was right. The next faithful. An old woman's back. A heavy, dull pain flowed into her. Then a child burning with fever. A sensation like her head was splitting from heat. Viola healed each person carefully. Every time her palm glowed, pain accumulated. But her expression remained serene. She had been doing this for eighteen years, after all. The light in her palm flickered. (Wait—) Viola's brow furrowed. The flickering was different from usual. Not a gentle shimmer, but something like being drawn toward a distant place. As if searching for something. (What is it reacting to?) The prayers continued. Viola pushed the strange sensation to the back of her mind. --- After healing the last of the faithful, Viola took a breath. That was when it happened. Her right palm—exploded was the closest word for it. Suddenly, an intense light poured out. There was no time to control it. White light consumed the entire prayer chamber. Viola pressed her right palm with both hands, but the light continued to leak through her fingers. A sharp crack. A stone pillar fractured. The next instant, the stained glass ceiling shattered all at once. Screams. Fragments of colored glass rained down on the heads of three hundred faithful. Priests shouted, shielding people with their bodies. Chaos. Chairs toppled. Children cried. Viola stood frozen, her right palm pressed against her body. The light faded. Silence. Glass scattered across the floor. Something like particles of light drifted slowly upward. Through the hole in the broken stained glass, morning light streamed in as thin rays. No one seemed to be seriously injured. But Viola had no room to confirm this. Her right palm was still hot. But the light was gone now. (What... happened?) "Viola." A low voice. She turned. An elderly man with white hair stood before her. Baldus, head of the Elder Council. Seventy-eight years old. His spine perfectly straight, he walked slowly through the crowd of faithful. The priests parted to let him pass. Baldus's face was not angry. That was what frightened her. Not anger—fear. A deep, bone-deep fear was reflected in those gray eyes. "Everyone, outside," His voice was quiet. But everyone moved. Priests guided the faithful out, and within minutes, only Viola and Baldus remained in the prayer chamber. Baldus stood before Viola, glanced once at the shattered stained glass, then slowly opened his mouth. "[serious] A runaway sacred art is proof that your emotions are in turmoil," "[scared] ... I understand," "If you understand, then why—" Viola could not answer. Baldus continued. His voice was low, controlled. But each word carried weight. "[serious] The Third Commandment of the Saint's Code: A Saint must not open her heart to the demon-kind. Do you know what happened three hundred and eighty years ago?" "[serious] The Twilight War. Forty thousand died in eight years," "Yes. Forty thousand—human and demon alike. The Saint of that time sealed them away with a great barrier, at the cost of her own life. That barrier still exists as the Twilight Wall. It holds the demon-kind to the northern reaches of the continent," Baldus's eyes grew distant. "[sad] I have read all the records. Every name written in the ledger of the dead. Not the number forty thousand, but forty thousand lives. ... If your sacred art runs wild, there is a possibility that tragedy will strike again. Your power is that great," Viola looked at Baldus. She knew this old man was not evil. He was afraid. Truly afraid. He had learned too much of the weight of that war, and it had remained in his bones as terror. That was why he could not overlook even the smallest tremor. "[serious] Correct the disturbance in your emotions, Viola. The seven commandments given to the Saint do not exist to bind you. They exist to protect the world," "[whispers] ... Yes," Baldus nodded and turned on his heel. His footsteps faded. The door closed quietly. Viola stood there for a long time, staring at the glass on the floor. (My emotions are in turmoil.) But she did not understand what was shaking them. --- In the afternoon, Viola gazed out from her window. From her room, she could see all of Soleil. White limestone buildings arranged in neat rows. The people moving through the streets appeared small. The Myrenne River—a tributary of the great river that flowed across the continent—reflected the afternoon light, glittering. Faint sounds of commotion drifted from the direction of the central market. Viola had been looking at this view for eighteen years. Leaving required permission from the Elder Council. That was the rule here. A Saint, holding rank equal to or above the King, could not walk freely through the streets. The market of Soleil existed only in books. The people walking along the banks of the Myrenne River. For Viola, it was all beyond the window. She noticed a small spider had woven a web on the window frame. White threads still glistened with morning dew. Viola stared at it blankly for a while. The spider, unconcerned, remained motionless at the center of its web. (You're free, aren't you?) She thought something foolish like that. But she truly meant it. A Saint's love was not a personal matter. A Saint's power grew stronger toward the one she loved. So whom a Saint chose was a matter of state. A matter of the world. Suitors had to make public vows in the cathedral's great hall—that too was a rule. Viola could feel the Elder Council's intention to choose her partner for political reasons. She knew everything. She understood everything. So she had given up. But the sensation in her right palm from this morning had not faded. The feeling of the runaway light lingered, seeping slowly through her. (What was that light drawn toward?) Viola had no answer. --- Night fell. The moon had risen. Viola stood alone in the cathedral's back garden. The white stone courtyard looked like a different place in moonlight. In daylight it was merely white stone, but at night it took on a blue tint, cold and luminous. The Elder Council forbade "going out," but the back garden within the temple grounds was permitted. This was an allowed place. Viola looked up at the northern sky. To the north of the Eldina continent lay the Twilight Wall. The great barrier erected after the Twilight War. A band of pale violet light stretched across the continent—humans could pass through it, but the demon-kind could not. Beyond that wall lay the Noir Wasteland and the demon territories. All of it, she had read in books. Two hundred sixty kilometers northeast of Soleil, past the frontier city of Rivaldo, then twenty kilometers further north. Recently, rumors had reached her that cracks were forming in that wall. But that too was something she knew only through books and the words of the Elder Council. Viola had no real sense of it. The wind blew. It came from the north. Cool and slightly damp. Viola narrowed her eyes. And then—she heard it. Not sound, exactly. More like a sensation. Not the sound of an instrument. Not a human voice. Something more direct, reaching straight to the center of her chest. Low and sorrowful, yet not angry. Simply there, like something that just existed. Quiet, but unmistakable. Viola stopped. Her chest tightened. It was close to the feeling of wanting to cry. But she was not sad. She could not explain the reason. It was a sensation she had never felt before. As if someone were there, but no one was. As if— She stood frozen for a long time. The wind died. The melody—faded. Viola placed her right palm against her chest. The stigma glowed softly. It was not running wild now. Just a faint, warm light. (What was that?) There was no answer. Stars filled the sky. Viola stood there for a long time. --- The next morning, she ran into the attendant Lina in the corridor. Lina was three years younger than Viola and the type who was easily flustered, even by the standards of the cathedral. "[excited] Viola! Did you hear the rumors!?" Viola narrowed her eyes slightly. "[gentle] Good morning, Lina. What rumors?" "[excited] It's spreading through the whole city! The Hero with the Holy Sword Carrion—that hero is heading toward Seraphina Cathedral!" Viola paused for a moment. The Holy Sword Carrion. A legendary blade drawn for the first time in one hundred fifty years, two years ago. A sword of white silver that shone with light, wiel