"Naither! Are you truly casting aside the grace of the gods?"
Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the window, landing softly beside the bed. Adam awoke, later than usual.
Last night's encounter still lingered in his mind, a faint tremor of fear in his chest—but all in all, it might have been a blessing in disguise.
As he looked around, everything—the sounds, the scents, the light—seemed to explode in vivid clarity. Each detail imprinted itself onto his mind. It was as though some invisible boundary had been shattered. The world around him felt strangely familiar now, almost like it was something he could control.
"A state of perception, huh?" Adam murmured. The sensation didn't last long. Soon, the heightened awareness faded.
Before last night, he experienced the world in fragments—smell was just smell, sight was just sight. But in that brief moment, everything merged into one seamless perception. He could even collide with the senses of others.
Had he not pulled himself out of that state in time, the black-smoke werewolf's overwhelming perception could've completely smothered his own. The sensory backlash might've knocked him unconscious.
Exhaling slowly, Adam tidied up the attic. Downstairs, he could hear the faint murmur of conversation. He grabbed his copy of Divine Word and made his way down.
At the bottom of the stairs, Friar Flar was speaking with Maggie. From the sound of it, they were discussing tuition.
In the skybound city of Aeria, behind Roya, stood the prestigious Radiant Voice Seminary—a place where most of the nearby nobles and clerics had once studied. But for common folk, the tuition alone was impossible.
Flar, though optimistic about Adam's potential, simply didn't have the means to fund such education. And truth be told, Adam didn't want to go to some divine academy anyway. What for? To get himself killed?
As Adam descended the stairs, Divine Word in hand, Flar's eyes were filled with regret. Adam had been born in the wrong era. In earlier years, before the seminary's reforms, any commoner who passed the entrance test and could afford a copy of Divine Word could enroll.
But as the nobles' power grew, most seminaries raised their entry standards. For ordinary folk, the doors were all but shut.
Sure, the reforms meant better resources for the clerics, and even Flar himself had benefited from them—but still, he couldn't help but sigh.
"Friar Flar! It's been days since you last visited." Adam ran up with visible excitement, then, as if remembering something, his expression grew reluctant. He held out Divine Word, placing it gently in Flar's hands. "Here, I'm returning it."
"Things have been... hectic lately." Flar smiled faintly, though the disappointment in his eyes deepened. He accepted the book, even though his own finances were tight—partly due to turning down certain 'gifts' from the city's nobles.
As he took the book, something caught his eye. Wedged between its pages was a thin wooden sliver—on it, a charcoal sketch modeled after one of the book's illustrations.
Adam had found both the wood and charcoal in Uncle Arlis's small workshop. Arlis did some carpentry, and Adam had long prepared this as his calling card—his way of knocking on opportunity's door.
"You drew this?" Flar asked, surprised and delighted. The lines were rough—charcoal on wood was hardly ideal—but the resemblance to the holy illustration was unmistakable.
"Yeah," Adam mumbled, suddenly shy and staring at the floor.
"Looks like it worked," Adam thought silently. He knew how to negotiate. When you want something but are afraid of rejection, the trick is to first ask for something bigger—something unreasonable. After that's turned down, your real request feels like a compromise. Most people go for it.
That was the idea here. Flar admired Adam's theological promise, but couldn't afford to support him. So when a lesser option appeared—like an apprenticeship—he'd likely go along with it out of guilt, even if it meant bending his own principles.
In a way, Adam was exploiting Flar's kindness.
"You've got a real gift for art," Flar praised warmly, running a thumb across the cover of Divine Word.
After a moment's hesitation, Flar added, "I know a few artists in town. I'll talk to them today—see if one of them might take you on as an apprentice."
"Thank Friar Flar properly!" Maggie said, nudging her nephew with glee. She bustled off to fetch some meat pies as a thank-you, though Flar politely declined.
"If it works out, I'll come by first thing tomorrow to take you over," Flar said, then stepped out of the Borku home. As he walked away, he murmured under his breath, "The gods bless those who believe."
Adam watched him leave, then grinned and whispered to himself, "The gods bless no one. I bless myself."
"Adam?" Maggie called, and he turned around, offering her a bashful smile.
"I'm so happy," she said, her eyes glistening. "You have talent. And now you have help."
Adam had added an extra mouth to the household when he arrived. He was a hard worker, yes—but that didn't mean more labor brought in more money. Every home had its limits.
He smiled and slipped into the kitchen, picking up the basket of pickled flatbread and heading out.
Aside from the unnerving encounter with another gifted one last night, everything was going according to plan.
He'd gathered a lot of intel recently—on the residents nearby, sure—but more importantly, on the southern district church.
By watching the church's supply buyers and tracking worship schedules, Adam had deduced that a restoration project was likely underway—most likely the murals.
It was no coincidence he'd chosen to pursue painting. He'd been planning this.
He'd studied Flar carefully. The friar had noble blood, but as a second-born son, he'd been given a payout and sent away after coming of age. Like many such nobles, he'd enrolled in a seminary.
Perhaps the influence of devout monks during his studies had shaped him, but Flar had grown to despise the new noble-centric policies. After graduation, he didn't return to his family's domain. Instead, he settled in Roya, refusing noble patronage and remaining politically isolated.
Adam respected that.
Didn't stop him from using it.
He knew that when Flar saw Adam's artistic talent, and couldn't afford seminary tuition, he'd naturally remember the church's mural restoration.
Adam recalled the scene from the night of the execution—Flar's blade cutting through the darkness like judgment itself. With his rank and skill, Flar could've asked for much more from life... but didn't.
In Adam's estimation, letting him join the restoration team as an assistant fell right within Flar's moral boundary.
And gaining access to the church from dawn till dusk? That would open the floodgates to intelligence gathering. From there, he could monitor anything from troop deployments near the city wall to the baron's movements—all while staying under the radar.
The church was a hub of information. If there were any major personnel shifts in the clergy, he'd hear about them first.
"That man will come to Roya eventually—no matter how much I've tried to cover my tracks." Adam thought grimly.
He sold a pickled flatbread, lowered the cloth over his basket, and wiped sweat from his brow. His hand lingered on the faint scar on his face.
Even if everything failed, Adam wouldn't lose much. It would be Flar's initiative—not his own.
His only fear?
That Flar would break too easily and pull some strings to send him directly to the seminary.
Dragging a good man down to such depths—that left a bitter taste. Like dumping a chamber pot from a second-story window.
Adam knew exactly how revolting that was.
But he didn't regret it.
Whatever dreams or beliefs he had, they meant nothing if he didn't survive.
Meanwhile, Flar entered the church through the side door. He nodded to a few other friars but hesitated at the nave.
He'd never used his position to help someone like this before.
But in the end, he approached the painter.