The staircase to the cathedral felt longer than Michael remembered.

Perhaps the journey had exhausted him more than he realized, or perhaps the weight of his own failure tugged at his steps, as heavy as the missing limb that threw his balance.

Each stride took more effort than the last, his boots tapping a steady, solitary rhythm against the polished marble.

White walls rose up around him, pristine and seamless as bone, each surface adorned with carvings that told stoy's of the light’s eternal grace.

He knew all of them by heart.

There was the Enlightenment, the moment when the Light had torn this world from the shadows and gifted it with the Apostle.

Countless depictions of their battles with the Darkspawn and the those affected with the Sight-Eating Plight, when their whole Layer had come together to eradicate all that threatened the Light.

Or the liberation of Hightale, the once great city that was now no longer.

His heart lifted at the sight, even as his footing wavered.

This place was a testament to his faith, a refuge untouched by the harsh sun that scorched the lands outside.

Unlike the homes and halls of common folk, there were no shaded windows here to hinder the light's presence; the cathedral was open, fully exposed to the unyielding radiance from above.

Michael reached the doors, took a slow breath to steady himself for the uncoming storm, and stepped inside.

Behind the heavy wooden doors, an ocean of townspeople had gathered, separated into orderly lines that snaked through the cathedral hall, each person waiting for a chance to be heard.

As Michael entered, someone near the front noticed him and called out,

“High Inquisitor!” A commotion passed through the crowd, and murmurs faded into silence.

Men and women, young and old, paused in their prayers and ceased their whispered conversations, turning to look at him with expressions of admiration and relief.

He returned their gazes with a bright smile, though he felt it waver ever so slightly.

Was he truly worthy of their admiration?

Faced with a heathen, he had demonstrated weakness where strength should have been shown.

“Y-your arm!” A young mother gasped, clutching her child’s hand as he tugged excitedly at her sleeve.

Her eyes widened when she noticed the empty left sleeve hanging from Michael’s shoulder like a loose scarf.

She pointed a finger towards it.

Michael gave a forced chuckle.

“Ah, just a minor inconvenience,” he brushed away the concern that he did not deserve.

“Nothing a faithful spirit cannot bear.”

The boy’s eyes, which had been scouting him with worry, met Michaels and began to tear up.

Noticing this, Michael took a few quick, graceful steps forward, though he could feel his balance waver just slightly to his right.

Placing his remaining hand on the boy’s head, he smiled down at him.

"No tears, Zadiyan. Haven't I told you? A bright soldier should never cry."

He crouched down in front of the boy, bringing himself to his level.

"What would your father say if he saw that?"

Zadiyan’s expression shifted from shock to a look of fierce determination.

He tightened his grip around his mother’s sleeve and brought it up to wipe off his tears and forming snod, the beginnings of a grin breaking through.

A quick slap on his shoulders followed. "Zadiyan!"

His mother scolded him, her expression angry, through Michiael saw her outrage did not reach her eyes.

He chuckled, gave the now cheekily grinning boy a pet on his shoulder, and stood up.

"Bright boy," he said and strode on.

Another voice called out from the line, and a shopkeeper stepped forward, bowing his head with respect.

“Good to see you back in one piece, High Inquisitor. There’s been talk lately, some saying you’d been sent on a dangerous mission. We prayed for you.”

Michael inclined his head humbly. “Your prayers were well palced, Igliel. As you can see.”

He gave a nod to his the nothing hanging off his left shoulder.

His tone was calm and reassuring, but he gently pressed forward, moving through the crowd as more townsfolk approached him.

As he continued through the lines, he met each person’s greeting, stopping to share a quiet word or offer a simple gesture of kindness. One young man approached nervously, twisting his strawhead in his hands.

“High Inquisitor, I’ve been offered work in the mines, but... I’m not as strong as the others. I don’t know if I’m cut out for it.”

Michael gave him an encouraging nod.

“Strength comes in many forms. If the Light has led you to this work, it will give you what you need. I’ll speak with the foreman myself to see that you’re not overburdened. What is his name.”

"Krell," the man muttered, scraping the name from his memory.

That name run a bell, like every single name of the people inside the cathedral would.

Stolen novel; please report.

"Ahh, so bright Krell did manage to work himself up after all. Good for him."

He contiued walking assuring the man that he would meet with his soon to be boss.

"Don't worry. Krell is a bright soul. He runs a tight ship but he's good to his people. I'll make sure he takes the time to show you the ropes."

The man’s face lit up with a look of visible relief, and Michael clapped him on the shoulder as he passed him.

More approached, some seeking guidance, others just wanting to share a moment of his time, and he offered what he could to each. Even as he pressed on, his path toward the back of the hall never wavered.

He hated it, but he had to push on. Today his time was limited. He had a report to give. A report of his failure.

When he finally reached the guard at the entrance to the inner sanctum, the massive man grabbed the door and pushed it open.

They shared a quick nod and then he had passed him.

When he entered the sanctum, he paused, his eyes adjusting to the sudden drop-off of light . Unlike the rest of the church the inner sanctum had normal shaded glass in their windows, giving it a secretive vibe.

Despite it the golden throne that stood in the middle of the room shone as bright as the sun itself.

Upon it sat the Apostle of Light, a figure so radiant, so grossly incandescent, that Michael wouldn't dare attempt to describe it. Every word would make a mockery of it's perfection, each description a butchery of the truth.

Beside the thone lounged another figure, draped in heavy, layered fabrics, a foreigner wrapped like a vagrant shielding himself from the sun’s fury.

He lounged like a smug sand serpent basking in the desert, eyes gleaming with idle disdain.

His fingers, laden with rings, wrapped around a wooden cube, which he twisted absently, as though the majesty of the throne or the inner sanctum itself was no more than a backdrop to his leisure.

His face was hidden beneath scarves, one covering his mouth and neck, another across his forehead, leaving only his eyes exposed.

Michael’s lip curled faintly downwards at the sight of the man.

He approached the dais and, with reverent care, fell to his knees, bowing until his forehead touched the cool stone floor.

"Your Luminescence," he whispered, his voice thick with reverence.

The Apostle of Light shifted, casting a gentle, gleaming gaze upon him.

"High Inquisitor," it spoke, it's voice a smooth whisper that seemed to hold both warmth and mirth.

"How many times must I tell you? No servant of the Light needs to bow before me. Rise!"

Michael hesitated for only a moment before obeying, forcing himself upright but kept his face pointing at the ground.

“I heard your journey was a success.”

“I brought shame upon the light,” Michael confessed, his voice low with humility. If he could, he would crawl into the darkest hole he could find.

“In my attempt to reclaim Brother Merean, I encountered a heathen. It was a woman half-beast, with blue scales sprouting from her skin and lightning in her breath. No doubt one of the alchemist’s creations. My attempt to enlighten her not only failed, but I also lost my arm in the clash.”

He sank to his knees. “I have proven entirely unworthy of the power you’ve given me.”

The Apostle’s face softened, and he reached out, resting a warm, steady hand on Michael’s shoulder, gently pulling him up before he could fully kneel.

“You reclaimed Brother Merean, did you not?” The Apostle whispered close to his ear, it's tone both gentle and insistent.

“Yes, Your Luminescence,” Michael admitted. It was, after all, the one thing he had managed to do.

No matter the pain that had shot through him as his arm melted from his shoulder, he could have never abandoned Inquisitor Merean, a brother of his and everyone that walked under the Light, to the darkness.

The Apostle smiled, it's expression as radiant as the sun itself.

“You have fulfilled your mission then, honoring what the Light has blessed you with through me. You speak of proving yourself unworthy? Because you lost your arm? High Inquisitor, there is no greater service, no higher honor, then bleed in the service of the light. To sacrifice a part of yourself in fulfilling it's will."

The words filled Michael with elation, but he dared to hesitate.

"But the heathen...," he started, but the Apostels voice, low but as mighty as any shout, halted him in his tracks.

It's hand's grasp of his shoulder grew tighter ever so slightly, filling the situation with new intensity.

This was not a person speaking another one, but a part of the Light made flesh. Though weren't they all just that?

"High Inquistor. My brother. My friend. Don't cloud your thought's with unnecessary worry. You are here. Alive and well. You strode into the dark, yet returned as bright as ever. Do you really believe the Light would've granted you such a return, would you not satisfied it?"

It were these words that made Michael realise how foolish he had been.

Tears filled his eyes falling in thick drops to the ground.

"Thank you," He sobbed, his voice faint as a whisper. "I was about to loose myself to doubt."

“And yet, you never wavered,” the Apostle replied, it's tone rich with approval.

It placed a hand on Michael’s head in blessing, his warmth filling Michael like sunlight.

"Even when the darkness seemed to close in, you held steady. You have served the Light faithfully, and it is pleased with you. After all, in front of me, you stand.”

Michael felt the weight of his earlier doubts dissolve. But the Apostle’s smile deepened, and a glint of excitement entered it's eyes.

“More than that,” the Apostle continued, “you’ve shown me that shadows still linger beyond what the Light touches. That there are still… creatures hiding, scheming in the dark. This ‘heathen’—the one who fought you. She was not simply lost or misguided, was she?”

Michael shook his head. “No, Your Luminescence. She was strong, harnessing powers I could not even hope to understand. She could breathe lightning and spit ice, move faster than the naked eye could see, and tear my strings like they were simple strands of hair.”

The Apostle’s eyes gleamed with a fierce delight.

“Good. Then you have warned us of a great threat. To think someone else than the Alchemist was hiding from us in the Fifth Layer. Had you not seen it and (und uns kunde davon gebracht hättest) I dont even want to imgagine what could have happened."

It released Michael’s shoulder and turned around, taking a few steps up the dais, spreading it's arms like they were wings. In this moment it looked like and angel, almost blinding the High Inquisitor.

"Thus your actions have given Brother Merean'S passing meaning. The Light still has work to do, and now we know where it must be directed. There is no shadow we cannot reach, and no creature we cannot purge. And thus we shall.”

It turned around, looking down at Michael.

“You’ve done well, Michael. Take pride in your service. Weep for Brother Merean, and spend time basking in the Light’s grace. For soon, I will call upon you again. When that day comes, we shall tear apart all that hides and hinders, dragging everyone who schemes against the Light into its sight."

Michael felt his spirit swell. He bowed again.

“Thank you, Your Luminescence,” he murmured, his voice filled with reverence.

The Apostle’s smile was as bright and constant as the sun itself, and with one last look at that radiant face, Michael turned and left the chamber, his heart restored.

How could he have ever doubted himself? Was he, like every other human, not loved by the Light?

“You know how to pick ’em." The-one-who-judges snickered, as he watched a devoted sheep march out of the chamber.

The Apostle raised an eyebrow, a faint look of annoyance crossing its face. “You find his devotion amusing?”

The-one-who-judges shrugged, whipping back and forth on his soles.

“Amusing? Maybe. Impressive? Sure, if that’s the word. A man willing to throw himself into the fire just because you tell him to… can’t deny he’s loyal.”

“Loyalty is powerful,” the Apostle replied, voice calm but firm. “And he believes. That alone makes him valuable.”

“Valuable,” The-one-who-judges echoed the word, making a mockery of it with his accentuation alone.

“I don’t know. I think what you mean is ‘useful.’ He’s useful to you, as long as he buys what you’re selling. Lucky for you, he does.”

The Apostle’s gaze remained steady.

“People like him keep the Light strong. They’ll fight to their last breath because they know they are part of something greater then themselves.”

The-one-who-judges let out a short, dry laugh that could just as well be part of a comedy skip.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Believes, is what you meant to say."

He tilted his head, studying the Apostle. His eye's tighened and with a spring he rose to his feet.

"I assume you want to send me after this ‘heathen woman’ to clean up what he couldn't.”

“Something like that,” the Apostle said, a trace of a smile tugging at the corners of its mouth.

“Go to the Fifth Layer. See if she’s truly just another of the Alchemist's creations. If she isn't, what I assume, scout them out."

"And if she is just another corpse stichted back together?"

The Apostel shrugged. " Then make sure she stays dead. Worst case we get a good reason to send our forces after the Alchemist."

It turned around to look at The-one-who-judges. “The Light reaches all, Judge." It cited one of the many dogmas it had fed the believers.

"Just make sure it reaches her, too.”

The-one-who-judges gave a snort and cracked his fingers.

One moment he still stood near the Apostel, the next he was gone.

Only his voice lingered in the room, mocking the Apostel with an ability it did not possess.

“Yeah, yeah. Consider it done.”