The air rushed past his ears as Luther plummeted down from the courtyard wall. For one dizzying moment, he wondered if this would be the grand finale of his so-called "saintly journey." A saint with broken legs, splattered across the temple courtyard—how poetic.
But he didn't fall far. His boots slammed against a slanted roof, the impact rattling his bones. He slid, half-controlled, half-panicked, before leaping again. The next drop landed him in softer earth.
Groaning, he rolled onto his back, chest heaving. "I… hate… temples," he muttered between breaths. "And… bandages. Saints shouldn't run when injured but well... here i am."
When his eyes finally opened, he blinked in surprise. He wasn't in another stone courtyard or endless corridor. No—this place was different.
Before him stretched a garden.
