After his training with the Huntmaster, Clive made his way back to Lucia's residence. His mind was heavy with all he had learned from Kell and Garrett, and the gravity of their impending journey.

  Lucia was in her workshop, surrounded by bubbling vials of variously colored liquids.

  "The full moon has arrived, the midnight blossoms will bloom soon," she said without looking up from her work. "Are you ready for our expedition to the Shadowfen?"

  Clive leaned against the doorframe, watching as she pipette out a sample of wine. "I am," he replied.

  Lucia glanced up. "You spoke with Kell, then?"

  Nodding, Clive moved further into the room. "The Huntmaster didn't mince words about what we're facing. Three primary threats, he said. Carnivorous plants with virulent poisons, corrupted animals with unnatural mutations, and..." he paused, "the Risen."

  "The walking dead," Lucia murmured, setting down her measuring tools and giving him her full attention. "Kell's seen them himself, you know. Lost half his patrol to them during his last expedition there five years ago. He doesn't speak of it often."

  "He said they retain their intelligence," Clive continued, a chill running through him at the thought. "That the older ones can control the flora and fauna of the swamp."

  Lucia nodded grimly. "The oldest are said to be former druids, corrupted by the very land they once tended. Their connection to nature perverted into something... unnatural."

  She moved to a cabinet and withdrew a slender case. Inside lay a set of throwing knives, each blade gleaming silver. "Blessed steel," Lucia explained, noticing his gaze. "Family heirlooms from my grandmother's time." She lifted one knife, testing its weight.

  Without warning, she flicked her wrist. The knife spun through the air towards him. Clive’s instinct was to dodge, but his [Motion Vision] told him the blade would not hit him. He stood still as the blade whispered past his shoulder and thudded into a wooden target board mounted on the far wall, a board he noticed pocked with dozens of similar marks.

  "Your accuracy is impressive," Clive said, turning back to her.

  "Practice." Lucia retrieved the knife and slid it back into its case. "Father insisted I learn when I was twelve. Said a merchant's daughter needed to protect herself." She closed the case with a soft click. "Turned out to be one of the few useful things he taught me."

  Clive studied her face, noting the bitterness in her tone when she mentioned her father. Unsure of what to say, he remained silent.

  "You should rest now," she continued, moving back to her workbench. "We head out early tomorrow." She picked up her pipette again, but her movements were less steady than before. "The Shadowfen doesn't forgive mistakes, and we'll only have one chance to gather what we need."

  Clive left her to her preparations, making his way back through the house's quiet corridors. The day's training had left his muscles sore. Tomorrow they would venture into a place that had claimed half a patrol of seasoned hunters. He climbed the stairs to his room, each step heavier than the last.

  Opening the door, he paused, struck by the silver light pouring through the window. He moved to the glass, gazing upward.

  It was the full moon.

  Perfect and luminous, hanging in the night sky like a silver medallion.

  Are you looking at it too, Jill?

  Their vow had been simple but meaningful, to share the moon when they couldn't share anything else.

  Sleep could wait. Some promises were worth keeping.

  Grabbing his sketchbook, Clive slipped out of the house and into the cool night air. The town was silent, most windows dark, residents conserving oil and candles as they slept away the night hours. His footsteps echoed against the cobblestones as he made his way to the town square, guided by the moon's generous light.

  The fountain at its center burbled quietly as Clive arrived. He sat at its edge, gazing upwards, letting the moonlight wash over him. Then, opening his sketchbook, he began to draw.

  He didn't sketch the scene this time. Instead, he let his pencil capture memories—Jill's face turned toward the night sky, her profile silvered by moonlight, her hand warm in his as they pointed out constellations real and imagined. The Painter's Palette that she'd invented for him. Her smile when she'd made him promise.

  "You’re here again."

  Clive didn't need to look up to recognize the voice. The Saintess stood a few paces away, her white robes almost luminescent in the moonlight.

  "You were looking for me?" he asked, not breaking from his sketch.

  "Not specifically." She moved closer, the sound of her boots soft against the stone. "But when I saw the full moon, I remembered our conversation and I felt like seeing it again."

  Clive's hand stilled over the paper. He hadn't expected her to remember that detail.

  She sat beside him, leaving a respectful distance between them. For a while, they existed in silence, two souls sharing the night air and the moon's benevolent gaze.

  Her gaze dropped to his sketchbook, to the half-finished drawing of Jill. "Someone you love?"

  "Someone I lost."

  "I’m sorry." She studied the emerging lines of Jill’s face. “What was her name?”

  "Jill. We used to watch the moon together."

  The Saintess' eyes lingered on the drawing, then traveled back to the moon overhead. "And you still do. That speaks to something enduring between you."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Clive remained silent, unsure how to respond to her insight. Instead, he added another line to Jill’s cheek.

  "From what I've heard," she continued, "Lady Thornwald is searching for a cure to the stone curse. I hope the day will soon come when no one in this town will lose anyone anymore."

  “Do you think she’ll succeed?” Clive asked.

  "Lady Thornwald is talented," the Saintess replied carefully. "And she has a powerful foreigner with her."

  Clive felt a sudden tension in his shoulders. "A powerful foreigner?"

  "I heard it from the Huntmaster himself," she said, eyes still on the moon. "Someone with the power of creation, using magic unheard of in these lands."

  A long silence stretched between them before Clive asked, "What do you think of that?"

  The Saintess turned to face him fully. "I think it's a great thing for Marblehaven." She paused, measuring her next words. "But such power rarely comes without complications. This foreigner, he might even be a Chosen."

  "Is that a bad thing?" Clive asked, “I heard the Chosens are chosen by the Gods themselves. It sounds like a blessing.”

  "Not exactly," The Saintess said, her fingers absently touching the religious symbol at her throat. "The gods may choose their champions, but they extract a terrible price. Each deity has their own agenda, their own vision for the world." She lowered her voice. "And Marblehaven is too small for two Chosen."

  Clive's brow furrowed. “What do you mean by that? The town seems large enough for all of us.”

  The Saintess expression grew solemn. "Have you heard of the Hundred Year War?"

  Clive vaguely remembered Lucia mentioning it. Something about a war between the Chosens, but the details were vague to him, and so he shook his head.

  The Saintess rose suddenly, “Come with me.”

  "Now?" Clive asked, noting the late hour.

  "Now," she confirmed. "Some things are better understood in moonlight."

  Curious, Clive gathered his sketchbook and followed as The Saintess led him away from the town square, past the outer buildings, and onto a narrow path that wound up a gentle slope. The full moon provided ample light to navigate by as they continued their conversation.

  "It was a time before the Church, when the old gods still walked openly among us. Different Chosen, each championing their patron deity, all vying for the loyalty of the people." Her voice grew haunted. "Armies clashed in the name of divine will. Cities burned. The land itself was scarred by their conflicts."

  After an hour of climbing, they reached a small plateau overlooking Marblehaven. From this vantage point, the sleeping town looked peaceful.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" The Saintess said softly.

  "It is," Clive agreed.

  "Now look there." She pointed to their right, where the land seemed to drop away suddenly.

  As they approached the edge, Clive’s heart skipped a beat. Before them stretched a vast, perfectly circular depression in the earth, like a massive bowl carved into the landscape. Even in the moonlight, he could see that nothing grew within it. No trees, no grass, not even weeds. Just bare, blackened earth.

  "What is this place?" Clive asked, his voice hushed.

  "It’s called the God's Footprint," The Saintess said. "It was once a thriving settlement. Now it's a reminder."

  Clive stepped closer to the edge, peeking down at the bottomless crater. "A reminder of what?"

  "Two Chosen met in battle here during the height of the war. Their conflict escalated beyond mortal means, and they called upon their divine patrons directly."

  She knelt and picked up a handful of the blackened soil, letting it sift through her fingers. "When gods clash, reality itself suffers the consequences. In a single moment, five thousand lives were extinguished."

  Clive stared at the massive depression, trying to imagine the power required to create such devastation.

  Certainty, is that true?

  [Certainty: Who knows? I was never a fan of history. I’m more of a live-in-the-moment kinda gal you know.]

  Clive sighed. Trying to get any answers out of Certainty was just exasperating. He examined the crater again before turning to the Saintess. "And this is all that remains?"

  "This is the scar left when a piece of the world is torn away," she said. "No amount of time has healed it. Nothing grows here.”

  Clive grabbed a handful of soil as well, wondering what Lucia would have said about it. “The devil, is this all happening again? A different battlefield, but the same war?”

  The Saintess studied him for a long moment before returning her gaze to the crater. "The Devil is a living stain on the Church's history, a wound that never properly healed."

  “What do you mean?”

  She rose, dusting off her hands on her white robes. "Few know this, but the Devil was once a church father himself. Brother Karasmai, he was called then—brilliant, charismatic, deeply devoted. I've seen his early writings in the church archives. His faith was genuine, his insights profound."

  "What happened to him?"

  "Power happened. Knowledge without wisdom. The same corruption that has claimed so many throughout history." She began walking along the rim of the crater, Clive following beside her. "He was tasked with studying ancient artifacts recovered from pre-Church ruins. Objects of power from the time of the Hundred Year War."

  The Saintess nodded. "Karasmai became obsessed with understanding their magic. He began conducting experiments in secret, delving into forbidden practices."

  "And the Church found out?"

  "Eventually," The Saintess said, her voice hollow. "But too late. By then, he had... changed. The magic he tampered with changed him, corrupted him from within. When confronted, he slaughtered seven priests before fleeing into the wilderness."

  She stopped at a point where the crater's edge jutted out slightly, offering a better view of its entirety. "That was five years ago. Since then, he has been working from the shadows, corrupting everything we hold dear."

  "Is that why you call him the Devil?" Clive asked. "For his heretical beliefs?"

  The Saintess expression darkened. "We call him the Devil because that's what he's become. Whatever humanity Brother Karasamai once possessed has been burned away. He now works in the shadows, corrupting our people and twisting their beliefs through fear."

  She turned to face Clive directly, her eyes reflecting the moonlight. "It is my sacred duty to cleanse his evil from this land. To end what never should have begun."

  "Perhaps you should start from your own church then." Clive said.

  The Saintess stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  "I was at the church with Garrett recently," Clive began. "We were delivering weapons when, Lord Blackwell arrived."

  "Blackwell, the merchant with an unsavory reputation."

  "He's more than a merchant," Clive replied. "I watched him bribe Father Michael directly—a box of diamonds, valuable ones. But that wasn't the worst of it."

  The Saintess expression remained neutral, but Clive noticed her fingers tightening around the fabric of her robe.

  "Blackwell brought women from villages beyond the mountains. 'Freshly gathered' were his exact words." Clive's voice hardened. "He presented them to Father Michael like they were merchandise, claiming they needed 'guidance' on the Lord's benevolence."

  The Saintess composure cracked, a flash of genuine shock crossing her face.

  "He told Father Michael they came with 'absolute discretion,'" Clive continued. "And Michael ordered them to be kept somewhere 'removed from public scrutiny.'"

  The Saintess turned away, her shoulders rigid with tension. "You're certain of this? “

  "Every word," Clive confirmed. "I saw it with my own two eyes."

  "And Father Michael accepted these... offerings?" The Saintess asked, skeptical.

  "He hesitated," Clive admitted. "But ultimately, yes. He dismissed us and left with Blackwell to discuss his 'proposal' further."

  The Saintess was silent for a long moment, staring out across the God's Footprint. When she finally spoke, her voice was ice. "Human trafficking under the guise of religious conversion. Bribery disguised as tribute. Exploitation of the vulnerable by those sworn to protect them." She turned back to Clive, her eyes blazing with cold fury. "These are not minor indiscretions, Clive. They strike at the very heart of what the Church claims to stand for."

  Clive said. "The way Garrett reacted, it seemed like this was an established pattern."

  "I knew there was corruption," The Saintess acknowledged. "Reports of misappropriated funds, favoritism in contracts, doctrinal violations. But this..." She shook her head.

  She straightened her shoulders. "Leave Father Michael and Lord Blackwell to me. On my honor as the Saintess of the God of Light, I swear I will cleanse the church of this darkness.”

  Where gods have walked, nothing grows again.

  —Ancient Marblehaven proverb