The knock on their suite door was soft, but it carried the weight of a death sentence. Knock. Knock.
Vanessa froze mid-sentence, her book on runic theory slipping from her fingers. Seraph, who had been cleaning her sidearm for the tenth time, instantly went still, her eyes fixed on the door.
Jonah took a slow, steadying breath.
"Stay calm," Seraph instructed, her voice a low whisper. "Don't volunteer information. Answer only what she asks."
"And try not to get smited," Vanessa added, her voice a nervous squeak. "That seems important."
Jonah managed a weak smile for her. "I'll do my best."
The lead Temple Knight from before stood in the doorway, his polished armor gleaming. "Her Eminence is ready for you now, Saint Jonah."
The walk to the Cardinal's office was the most intimidating journey of Jonah's life. The hallways of the Cathedral were vast and cold, with ceilings so high they were lost in shadow. Their footsteps - the knight's sharp clank-clank and Jonah's soft tread - echoed in the tense silence. Every statue of a long-dead saint seemed to be watching him, their stone eyes full of judgment.
Finally, they reached a pair of massive carved wooden doors. The knight pushed them open without a word and gestured for Jonah to enter.
The doors boomed shut behind him.
Jonah found himself in a circular office. The air smelled of old paper and dust motes danced in a single, brilliant shaft of sunlight that lanced down from a high window, illuminating a massive, throne-like desk. The rest of the room was in cool shadow. Behind the desk, looking impossibly small and yet completely in command, sat Cardinal Evangeline.
"Jonah of Cinderfall," she said, her voice like warm honey, but with a shard of glass hidden inside.
"Come closer. Do not be afraid."
Jonah wasn't afraid. Not exactly. But he felt like a mouse being invited into a lion's den. He walked across the cold marble floor and stopped a respectful distance from her desk.
Evangeline looked him over, her sharp eyes missing nothing. She didn't look pious or holy. She looked like a general, a queen, a master chess player studying the board.
"I have read Inquisitor Theron's report," she began, steepling her fingers. "It was... fascinating. He said you calmed his righteous fury. A feat no demon has ever managed." She smiled, a thin curve of her lips. "And your reason? You made a promise to a dying soul. How very noble."
The praise felt like a trap.
She leaned forward, and the pious grandmother act vanished completely. "Let us speak plainly, child. Your power is an anomaly. Some in the Church believe you are a heretic, a bio-mancer dabbling in the most forbidden of arts. They believe you should be purified by holy fire."
Jonah's stomach clenched, but he kept his expression neutral.
"I, however," she continued, her voice falling to a secret whisper, "believe that divine power can manifest in the most unexpected of ways. I am willing to believe you are not a heretic. But you must prove it. I am giving you a chance to prove which you are."
She rose from her chair and walked towards a large, detailed map of the nation hanging on the wall. She pointed a slender finger to a dark, ugly blotch on the landscape, a place far from any city.
"Do you know of the Withered Scar?" she asked.
Jonah shook his head.
"Fifty years ago, a cabal of warlocks performed a foolish ritual on that spot. They tore a hole in reality and summoned a powerful demon. Our finest Temple Knights shattered the demon's body, but a fragment of its corrupted soul fell to the earth, poisoning it."
Her expression grew grim. "The land itself is cursed. The magic is so foul that it twists any life that wanders into it, creating soul-starved monstrosities. "It's a lasting wound on our world, a bad sore that can't be healed by holy means. For fifty years, our most powerful Arch-Healers have tried to cleanse it. All have failed."
She turned from the map, her eyes locking onto Jonah's. "The public demonstration in the Cathedral tomorrow… it is cancelled. We will be holding a new demonstration. A more meaningful one."
She walked back to her desk and leaned against it, her eyes glinting with a dangerous light.
"I will personally escort you, your research assistant, and your military guardian to the very edge of the Withered Scar."
She let the silence hang in the air for a moment before delivering the final blow.
"If your creature," she said slowly, "can heal even a single acre of that cursed land - a task our holiest and most powerful have failed at for fifty years - I will not only declare your gift divine... I will make you a Living Saint of the Church."
Jonah felt his breath catch in his throat. A Living Saint. The Church's most powerful symbol of hope and holiness. A position of great power, respect and protection.
He saw the cage snap shut.
There were no good options. The Cardinal had laid them out perfectly.
If he failed, if Sylva's power wasn't enough to heal even a tiny piece of that cursed land, he would have failed the ultimate holy test. He would be branded a heretic, a fraud. His power would be declared unholy, and Inquisitor Theron would be waiting with his holy fire.
But if he succeeded… If he did the impossible and healed the unhealable, his power would forever be tied to the Church. He would be their miracle, their proof of divine favor. He would become their property, a symbol they could control and use for their own political ends. His life, his research, his very future would be dictated by their needs. He would be a saint, but live like a prisoner in luxury.
He was completely trapped. He could see it in the Cardinal's triumphant eyes. She had him.
He looked at the powerful woman before him, the mastermind who wielded faith like a weapon. He thought of his promise to the Broodmother.
Create… a better future…
Healing a wound on the world was a part of that promise.
He had no choice. But he would walk into the trap with his eyes wide open.
Jonah stood up a little straighter, meeting her gaze without wavering. He gave a slight bow.
"I accept the challenge, Your Eminence."