Xavier, the Pope, saw them. Saw them both.
His shadowy eyes peered beneath the golden lattice of the upper sanctuary, where light broke through the stained-glass depiction of the goddess in her hour of birth. It fell on the courtyard like divine judgment—but Xavier's gaze was anything but holy.
He watched with serene amusement, hands folded in that trademark reverent clasp, as they stood together below: the boy forged from prophecy and ruin—Atlas—and the girl from pain and power—Qin. Two creatures touched by fate, by death, by the very edges of what most men dared not believe.
He only smiled. His dark eyes smirked with his lips, though no muscles moved. For a man regarded as a walking vessel of the goddess's will, his thoughts would not pass the tests of sainthood.
But still... his heart beat for the praise of the goddess. Still, he prayed. Still, he weaved fate in her name.
