The doors shut behind him with a sound like a coffin closing.
Inside, the church was nothing like he had imagined. No benches, no candles, no separate rooms. Just a vast hollow chamber, the stone walls bare except for faint carvings too weathered to read. The air was heavy, thick with incense that smelled faintly of iron and ash.
At the far end stood an altar. Above it rose a sculpture carved entirely from dark wood: a single feather engulfed in flame. Not a painted flame, not gilded, but fire itself captured in sharp edges, twisting upward. The sight made Kino's stomach knot.
He thought of Esdion, the sea god Rose had taught him to pray to. Esdion needed no idols. His presence was in the waves, in the rhythm of tides, in the taste of salt on the wind. You prayed to him by kneeling on the shore, whispering your need into the foam. Simple, quiet, kind.
This place was not simple.
This place felt like it demanded something.
Kilsa walked ahead casually, as though he'd entered a tavern and not a house of gods. Kino trailed behind, his footsteps echoing far too loud in the hollow space.
At the base of the altar stood a man in robes the color of night. The cloth shimmered faintly when the incense smoke curled across it, as if it swallowed the light instead of reflecting it. His face was pale, sharp, his eyes dark and unreadable.
The Black Priest.
Kilsa bowed his head, almost respectful, though the grin never left his lips. "Brought someone, Father."
The priest's gaze swept to Kino. It was not warm. It was not cruel. It was the way one might examine a stone pulled from the ground, curious whether it was worthless or precious.
"You are not of this city," the priest said. His voice was low, steady, carrying too easily in the empty space.
Kino swallowed. "No."
"From where?"
Kino hesitated. The island already felt fragile, as though if he spoke of it too freely it would crumble into smoke like the library. "Far."
The priest studied him a moment longer, then turned without pressing further. "You are hungry."
Kino was too tired to deny it. His body ached with hollowness, salt still burning his throat.
The priest lifted a hand. From a doorway Kino had not noticed, a robed attendant emerged carrying a tray. On it lay bread, thick and warm, and a small bowl of stew whose steam curled like fingers.
The smell nearly made Kino collapse. He took the bowl with both hands, not even caring if his desperation showed. The stew was rich, spiced, meat soft enough to fall apart. He ate until the bowl was empty and the warmth spread through his veins.
When he finally looked up, the priest was still watching him.
"Better," the man said. Not a question.
Kino nodded. "Thank you."
"Thanks are for gods. Not for men."
The words unsettled him. Rose had taught him gratitude was prayer. Cisco had taught him to honor Kirin for sparing the house during summer storms. Even Kaiji, with his loud tales, ended every story with a raised cup to the gods.
But this priest seemed to separate man and god with a clean, cold line.
Kino set the empty bowl down carefully. His eyes drifted back to the sculpture above the altar: the burning feather. It seemed to flicker in the corner of his vision, as though the carved flames truly moved.
"What… god is this?" Kino asked before he could stop himself.
The priest's expression did not change. "The one who receives."
Kino frowned. "Receives what?"
The priest did not answer.
Kilsa laughed softly, as though Kino had said something childish. "Don't bother. They never explain it the first time."
The priest looked to Kilsa. "Find him a bed. The church has no rooms."
Kilsa gave a mock salute. "Plenty of slum holes to choose from."
Kino blinked. "Not here?"
The priest's eyes fixed on him again. "No one sleeps in the house of the burning feather. The flame does not rest. Neither should you."
A chill slid down Kino's spine.
The priest turned away, walking slowly toward the altar, his robe whispering across the stone. When he reached the sculpture, he lowered his head—not a bow, not prayer, but something quieter, harder to name.
Kilsa tugged Kino's sleeve. "Come on. Don't stare too long. Gives you strange dreams."
The night air outside the church was colder, sharper. The noise of the slums returned at once—children crying, men shouting, the splash of water in the canals. Yet the image of the burning feather clung to Kino's mind.
"Who… who is it meant for?" Kino asked as Kilsa led him through the alleys.
"Which god?" Kilsa said with a grin. "Who knows? People say the priests don't serve gods at all. Or maybe they serve all of them. Or maybe something else."
Kino frowned. "But gods are real."
Kilsa raised an eyebrow. "Are they? I've seen priests heal wounds with powders and chants. I've seen men drowned in canals call it Esdion's judgment. I've seen lightning burn down houses while others stood dry, so they call it Kirin's choice. Maybe gods are real. Maybe it's just power."
Kino shook his head. "They're real. All of them. Esdion listens. Kirin answers. I've prayed and seen both."
Kilsa laughed again. "Then maybe you'll fit right in."
They turned down narrower alleys where the air stank of rot. Kilsa pointed to a crooked building leaning against its neighbor, its windows cracked, its roof sagging.
"There," Kilsa said. "You'll sleep here tonight. Safer than most. Not too many rats."
Kino stared. "This is… mine?"
Kilsa smirked. "For now. Don't thank me. It's the priest's order. You're theirs now, whether you like it or not."
Kino's chest tightened. The island had been a cage of kindness. This felt like another cage, colder, quieter. He thought of Rose whispering prayers to Esdion by the shore, Cisco cursing Kirin's storms as he trained him, Kaiji laughing with thunder in his voice. Those gods had felt alive.
This church felt like stone pretending to breathe.
Kino lay on the straw pallet that night, the noise of the slums leaking through thin walls. Sleep came slowly, and when it did, he dreamed of waves turning to fire, and a feather burning without turning to ash.