When I woke, it felt like I hadn’t slept at all.

  My limbs were heavy. My head throbbed. My body screamed for rest, yet I remembered sinking into the dream instantly, Charlotte’s crimson gaze burning behind my eyes.

  I sat up, rubbing at my temple.

  Does that even count as REM sleep?

  The room was still, lit only by the grey light slipping between the curtains. On the floor near the chair, I spotted it - the envelope. The one the porcelain clown masked man had pointed to.

  I knelt down, picking it up. The parchment was crumpled, edges still stained faintly with my blood. The grotesque sketch glared back at me - the crucified man’s mouth twisted in silent agony.

  I dropped into the chair, set it on the desk, and exhaled through my nose.

  “Alright then. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

  My eyes bled pure red as I called Charlotte’s gaze. The world dulled, sharp and blurred at once. The ink seemed to writhe, the crude scrawl shifting beneath the page like something alive.

  Slowly… letters surfaced.

  Not jagged. Not childlike. Clean. Elegant. Words rising like scars from flesh.

  It takes the eyes of two Angels…

  And then - nothing.

  The script ended there.

  I stared, the glow fading from my eyes. My jaw tightened. “…Mary.”

  Of course. Of course I'd need her to read the other half, why would it ever be that easy? The Bishop wasn’t just a cultist. He was an alchemist. A craftsman of occult puzzles designed for only two people to solve.

  Which meant I’d have to see her again.

  I leaned back, pressing my palms against my eyes until stars danced across my vision. Not even a day since last time, and here I was crawling back already.

  “Perfect.”

  I forced myself up, stripped off my shirt, and pulled on something less wrinkled. A dark waistcoat. A pressed coat. Brushed my hair with my fingers until it looked halfway presentable. The flat cap stayed on the rack. For once, I needed to look less street rat and more… noble’s shadow.

  By the time I stepped out into the street, the cathedral bells were tolling.

  ---

  Saint Patrick’s Cathedral loomed above the district like a shard of some other world. Bronze towers rose into the fog, iron gargoyles leering down from the buttresses. The entrance steps swarmed with worshippers - men, women, children clutching candles, filing in and out like ants in reverence.

  I pulled my coat tighter and walked among them.

  The interior swallowed me whole.

  Vaulted ceilings stretched into shadow. Stained glass painted fractured light across the pews, halos of blue and red flickering across bowed heads. The air smelled of incense and melted wax. Murmurs rose from a dozen priests, voices like low tide rolling against the stone.

  I moved with the flow, each step deliberate, my eyes scanning every arch and alcove. A massive iron door loomed ahead, flanked by two paladins in armour polished to a mirror sheen. Their halberds glinted like executioner’s blades.

  A hooded priest noticed me before I reached them. His voice was soft, almost kind. “We were told to expect you eventually. If you wish to see Her Highness, follow me.”

  Expect me?

  I only nodded, following him past the iron doors.

  They opened without a sound. The paladins did not move, but their eyes followed me, sharp and judging.

  Beyond was a stone landing, and a staircase that plunged downward.

  At the threshold, the priest gestured. “Shoes.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  He only repeated, patient. “Remove them.”

  I didn’t argue. Slowly, I untied my boots, sliding the letter inside as I set them aside, and stepped onto the cold stone with bare feet. The chill bled up my legs as we descended.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The further we went, the darker it grew - until the air grew damp, and the first glimmer of water reflected from below.

  By the time we reached the bottom, my calves were already wet. The chamber was half-flooded, the stone floor submerged almost to my knees. The water was shockingly cold, but not stagnant - I could feel a faint current, rippling against my skin.

  Candles floated everywhere. Dozens, maybe hundreds, scattering in the chamber. Some drifted across the water in perfect lines, partitioning a narrow path deeper into the chamber. Their flames didn’t flicker, even in the breeze, each one burning straight and tall like little stars on black glass.

  I swallowed.

  The path led into a cavernous opening. Voices whispered from ahead - low, melodic, like the hum of a hundred throats praying as one.

  And then I saw them.

  Figures in white. Dozens of them, standing knee-deep in the water. Their hands clasped in prayer, their voices weaving together in a single rhythm that pressed against the walls.

  In the centre of them all stood Mary.

  White dress. Barefoot in the water. Golden hair spilling down her shoulders like sunlight in the dark.

  And in her arms, an infant.

  Her smile was radiant, unfeigned. It was not the cold composure of nobility, nor the veiled politeness of the court. It was genuine. Warm. The kind of smile you’d swear only existed in paintings of saints.

  Even I stopped, breath caught in my throat.

  She dipped her head, whispered something inaudible to the child, then lowered them into the water. Just a moment - a brush of cold - before lifting them again.

  The infant didn’t cry. Didn’t wail. Only stared at her, wide-eyed, as though entranced.

  The parents stepped forward. A woman weeping. A man trembling. Mary placed the child into their arms with infinite care, and their sobbing thanks nearly drowned the hymn.

  The voices rose louder. Prayer. Chant. A rhythm that echoed through the water and stone.

  I found myself drifting forward, one step at a time, drawn by something I couldn’t name. My shadows stirred faintly, restless - but even they seemed subdued here.

  I slipped into the crowd, lowered my head, and joined them.

  Praying.

  For what, I wasn’t sure.

  Only that for the briefest moment, standing in the candlelit water with the hymn vibrating in my chest, even I almost believed she was what they said she was.

  A saint.

  The priest at my side leaned closer. His whisper was soft, almost musical.

  “Wait here, young one.”

  He moved forward, bowing low before Mary, murmuring something only she could hear. She nodded once, her expression serene, before turning her gaze outward.

  Her voice rose clear, carrying through the candlelit chamber.

  “Another soul among us wishes to be baptised in the holy water of the Divine.”

  The congregation turned as one.

  And all their eyes fell on me.

  I froze. Black coat, dark waistcoat, half-shadowed face. I must have looked like I’d wandered in from a funeral rather than a holy rite.

  But no one sneered. No one judged.

  Instead, they smiled. Gentle, kind, as though their warmth could melt the black off my back. Hands touched my shoulders, guiding me softly, ushering me forward without force. Like I belonged here. Like judgment didn’t exist.

  For a moment, I forgot these people were nobles.

  No - they weren’t. The scars on their arms, the callouses in their hands. It was unmistakable.

  Since when were commoners allowed in Saint Patricks Cathedral?

  Mary extended her hand. I hesitated, then placed mine in hers. Her fingers were warm, delicate yet steady. She looked at me with a solemn smile, and her voice filled the chamber.

  “Do you wish to be baptised in His likeness, in the light of His forgiveness, and in the presence of His children?”

  Every eye was on me.

  I swallowed once, then forced a faint smile. “I do.”

  Mary’s touch was careful, reverent. One hand on mine, the other cradling the back of my head as she lowered me gently into the water.

  I braced for the sting. The bite of cold.

  But none came.

  The water was cool, yes, but not harsh. It wrapped around me like silk, light against my skin. My eyes opened instinctively, and instead of burning, the world shone. Candles shimmered above me, halos bending into golden rings. For a fleeting second, I swore I could breathe here, in this still and sacred flood.

  But I didn’t try.

  Her hands lifted me, slowly, carefully, breaking the surface with no haste. The hymn swelled as the water streamed from my hair and clothes. Mary’s voice declared, clear and unwavering:

  “He is cleansed.”

  The congregation bowed their heads. The prayer rolled over me like a tide.

  Together, we moved deeper, following the line of floating candles toward an archway carved from pale stone.

  Beyond, the chamber widened into a sanctum. The water gave way to a raised dais, its steps draped in white flowers. Upon the dais lay a coffin - ancient oak, ringed with offerings. Loaves of bread. Bottles of wine. Old tomes bound in cracked leather. Signs of gratitude, of devotion.

  One by one, those in white stepped forward. Each left a gift. Each pressed their lips to the necklaces at their throats - pendants shaped like smooth white masks - before bowing to the coffin.

  The prayers quieted, replaced with whispers and weeping. Then, slowly, reverently, the congregation began to file out, their footsteps rippling the water until only silence remained.

  Only Mary and I.

  She stayed before the coffin, her eyes downcast, fingers clutching a necklace of her own. Her voice broke the hush, soft but certain.

  “Did you know, Saint Patrick was given the highest honour of the Church?”

  I shook my head.

  "I'm not familiar with his story."

  She lifted the pendant slightly, its white surface glowing faint in the candlelight. “The honour of Identity. The Church bestows it only once in a generation. It means he was recognized by the Almighty Himself. That his deeds… were great enough to matter. Great enough to be saved. This water is supposed to save those exposed to it, blessed by Saint Patrick's sacrifice.”

  Her gaze lifted to the coffin, then to the portrait above it - a man painted in pale robes, his face serene, framed by light.

  I stood beside her, my voice quiet. “Then he must have been an incredible man.”

  Mary said nothing at first. Only bowed her head, lips moving in silent prayer. The necklace pressed against her forehead, her knuckles white with the weight of her grip.

  When she finished, she breathed out slowly. Her eyes lingered on the coffin as she spoke again. “Tell me, Damian. Do you feel it? Lighter. As though your sins have been lifted, and the Almighty has accepted you into His likeness. Do you feel saved?”

  I chuckled under my breath. Light. Almost teasing. “No. If anything, I feel heavier. Maybe He’s already forsaken me.”

  Mary turned her head. Her blue eyes studied me for a long, unreadable moment.

  Then she looked back to the portrait, and her voice softened. “That’s funny. Because I feel the exact same way.”

  please review my story, even if its just a quick rating. If everyone gave a small rating with less than 50 words I'd easily get on rising stars. Please help me achieve my dream!