The fire crackled beside him.
Elias Montano sat alone on the high balcony of the Crimson Cathedral, watching smoke drift lazily across the night sky. The air was still, heavy with the stench of old blood and burnt wood. Below, the courtyard was quiet. The faithful had long since gone to sleep. Even the Red Choir's bells had stopped their endless ringing.
This was his favorite time.
Not because it was peaceful—but because it reminded him of the world before.
Before the flames.
Before the screams.
Before the lie of salvation was finally stripped away.
Elias leaned forward in his chair, staring down at his hands. Scarred knuckles. Calloused palms. Lines of age and dirt that never quite washed away. He didn't look like a prophet. He didn't feel like one either.
But they believed in him.
And that was enough.
He was still Father Elias back then.
