The next morning, the party assembled in the courtyard of the cathedral.

  The saintess stood at the courtyard's center, returned to her formal regalia. Heavy robes of white and gold replaced last night's simple dress with her hair bound beneath the ceremonial headdress. Yet when she shifted, Clive caught a glimpse of crimson. His rose was tucked into her belt, partially hidden beneath the folds of her robes.

  "You're the artist." A man approached. Unlike the standard guard uniforms, his plate bore a blue sheen that indicated it was made of mithril. Along it were intricate engravings that had a faint golden glow. It appeared to be some sort of enhancement as far as Clive could tell. "Auron, Templar First Class."

  He didn't extend his hand. Instead, he stood there with his intense stare that bore deep into Clive.

  Clive returned the stare, trying to get a measure of the man but it was impossible to read his emotionless face.

  This person seemed unpleasant. Clive mentally cataloged Auron, not looking forward to the journey ahead. If he had to guess, Clive saw him as a man who had the bearing of someone who'd never questioned an order in his life.

  Behind him, twelve templars stood in formation. Unlike Auron, their armor were standard steel gear, though the weapons were made of mithril.

  Clive smiled, recognizing those weapons as his handiwork. Well, partially his. He had Garrett to thank as well. It was only thanks to Garrett’s work that Clive was able to learn mithril.

  "Captain Auron personally led the mithril expedition," the saintess said. "Without his success in securing these weapons, today wouldn't be possible."

  "The man's a hero. You should have seen the way he fought off the wraiths." Another templar stepped forward. He was broader than Auron, with scars crossing his jaw that looked recent enough to still ache in cold weather. "Jecht, vice-captain. Lost three fingers to a wraith's touch before the captain pulled me out." He held up his left hand, showing where his smallest fingers ended in stumps. "Worth it though. Got enough mithril to arm the whole unit."

  A handful of priests emerged from the temple, carrying staves topped with crystal orbs. One priest, older than the rest with deep lines around his eyes, stepped forward.

  "And we'll handle the support." The cleric's voice had the reedy quality of someone who spent more time in prayer than conversation. "Brother Tacitus, senior healer. These are my acolytes—they'll maintain the buffs and handle any corrupting influences we encounter."

  "Corrupting influences?" Clive asked.

  “Curses, debuffs… The demon king’s influence alone can twist a man’s thought,” Tacitus explained. “We've had soldiers return from patrol speaking in tongues, claiming they could hear colors and taste sounds. Our barriers help maintain clarity of mind.”

  Clive considered this, remembering the Warden’s oppressive [Aura of Dread]. The ctushing weight had pressed against his mind, trying to fill with despair. He’d managed to resist it through sheer force of will, but Lucia hadn’t been so fortunate. He’d watched her crumple under its influence, paralyzed by manufactured terror until he’d pulled her free.

  If the Devil possessed something similar but stronger, these priests would prove invaluable in the fight.

  Auron cleared his throat, clearly impatient with the explanations. "We move in formation. Templars take point. Priests at the rear." He turned to Clive. "You stay in the center, protected. We'll call you forward when we need... whatever it is you do."

  "Paint," Clive said flatly. "I paint."

  It was subtle, but Clive swore he could see Auron’s expression turn to disdain. His face remained controlled, but Clive’s [Artist’s Eye] could see the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his jaw set just a fraction harder. It was the kind of micro-expression Clive had learned to capture in portraits.

  The other templars didn't bother with such restraint. Glances passed between them like coded messages.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  "We're bringing a painter to fight the Devil," one muttered, not quite under his breath.

  Another templar snorted. "Should've brought more swords."

  "Maybe he'll draw us a nice picture of our deaths," a third added, earning a few dark chuckles from the ranks.

  "This man has done what none of us could. He is the only way to reverse the stone curse. Show respect, unless you would rather turn to stone." The saintess's voice carried across the courtyard.

  "We don't need him. As long as we have the Saintess, we'll definitely win." The voice came from a younger templar near the back.

  "That's right," another agreed. "The God of Light works through her. What's some artist going to do that divine power can't?"

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the ranks. Several templars nodded in agreement.

  "Enough." Auron's voice cut through the growing chorus like a blade. He stepped forward. "The council has already decided on this matter."

  The courtyard fell silent.

  "The Saintess requested this man's presence, and the council has approved," Auron continued, his tone dangerously level. "Unless any of you presume to know better than the council of elders?"

  No one spoke. Several templars found sudden interest in staring at the ground.

  "I thought not." Auron's gaze swept across the formation. "Save your opinions for the tavern. Here, you follow orders."

  The templars resumed their preparations in silence, the earlier bravado crushed under their captain's disapproval. Metal clinked against metal as they checked their equipment.

  Auron waited until the last of them had turned away before addressing Clive again. "Intelligence suggests the Devil has made his lair in a cave north of town. The entrance is carved into the Ashfall Cliffs. It’s old volcanic rock that's harder than iron. We'll need to navigate several passages before reaching the main chamber."

  A cave. A fitting place for a Devil to hide. But given how frequently his stone curse struck, Clive thought he would be hiding in town. Perhaps some deep catacombs hidden underground.

  “I led the scouting team myself.” Jecht spoke. “Five men total. But I’m the only one who made it back.”

  The courtyard had gone quiet. Even the templars who'd been checking their equipment stopped to listen.

  He turned to face Clive directly. "Truth is, I barely remember getting out. One moment, I was watching my men turn to stone, watching their faces twist as rock spread through their veins. Henderson reached for me, mouth open like he was screaming, but only dust came out. I managed to escape. I ran. Next thing I knew, I was at the gates, pounding on them with bloody fists."

  The younger templars had gone pale. One dropped his helmet, the clang echoing across the courtyard.

  “Enough chatter,” Auron interrupted. “We march for the northern gate.”

  "Form up!" Auron's command sent the soldiers into motion. They moved into formation, creating a protective formation around the non-combatants.

  They moved through the cathedral grounds and toward the main town gate. Along the way, Brother Tacitus fell into step beside Clive. Despite his age, the priest kept pace easily. With every step, his staff clicked against the road.

  "How did you do it?" the old priest asked, studying Clive with eyes that seemed younger than his wrinkled face suggested. "The stone curse. I've studied healing magic for forty years, and nothing in our texts even hints at reversal."

  "It's complicated."

  Tacitus smiled faintly. "We have a long journey ahead, and my old bones appreciate distraction from the walking."

  Clive considered how much to reveal. "I paint them. Match their original skin tone as closely as I can. It helps the body remember what it was before the stone."

  The priest walked in silence for several paces as if working through the implications. "Paint to restore flesh from stone..." He shook his head slightly. "In forty years of study, I've never heard of such a thing. How many have you saved this way?"

  "Several dozen. Maybe more."

  "Have you seen the church victims. The ones we've kept in the cathedral crypts?" Tacitus paused. "Can they be helped?"

  Clive hadn’t seen them. But if they were stored in the crypt, it was unlikely he could help. "I can only cure those who haven't fully turned. Once the transformation completes...”

  "Oh?" Tacitus's eyebrows rose. "They said you cured Lady Thornwald from a fully transformed state."

  Clive shook his head. "That was an exception. I had her portrait, which captured her likeness. Without that knowledge, I can't restore what's been lost completely.”

  Tacitus sighed. “A pity then. Most of our victims could scarcely afford the luxury of a portrait.”

  “How many victims does the church have?"

  "Dozens in the crypts. More in the outer sanctuaries."

  "We tried to find a pattern at first. Location, time of day, anything that might help us predict the next attack. But then we realized there was a pattern, just not the kind we expected."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The Devil seems to know exactly who to target. Guard captains who patrol the outer walls. Healers who might recognize the curse's patterns. Anyone who could organize resistance or understand what's happening."

  Such precise targeting made sense if the Devil truly was Father Karasmai, as the Saintess had revealed that night at the God's Footprint. But Tacitus spoke as if this were some mystery, not the work of a fallen church father. Was that knowledge restricted to the upper hierarchy? The church would certainly have reason to keep quiet about one of their own becoming their greatest enemy.

  Clive studied the old priest's weathered face, then decided to take the risk. "What do you know about Karasmai?"

  When asked why he painted roses for a goddess who valued only certainty, the pictomancer replied: 'Even certainty must be beautiful, or what's the point of being sure?'

  — Tales of the Pictomancer

  Collected by the Scribes of Marblehaven