Silas returned home later than usual.
The sound of the front door opening carried down the hallway, quieter than Steven's entrances usually were, more measured. Tyler, seated on the floor of the living room with an open book he wasn't really reading, lifted his eyes as Silas stepped inside and removed his shoes.
"Papa," Tyler said.
Silas smiled faintly. "Still up?"
Tyler nodded. "Yes."
The house was calm in the way evenings often were after dinner lamps lit, voices lowered, the world narrowed to familiar walls. Melissa was in the kitchen rinsing dishes. Somewhere upstairs, the muted sound of Steven's voice carried briefly before cutting off.
Viola emerged from her room almost immediately.
"You're back," she said, already sounding as if the day had been waiting for her to continue it.
Silas loosened his collar. "I am."
"We need to talk," Viola said, turning toward the dining table. "About the church."
Tyler closed his book quietly and shifted closer, not intruding, just present. Silas noticed but didn't say anything.
"The venue is decided," Viola continued, sitting down. "Ignaros Church. But we can't move forward without meeting the administrator."
Silas nodded slowly. "That makes sense."
"They handle approvals. Ritual dates. Formalities," Viola said. "Better we speak directly."
Melissa dried her hands and joined them, leaning lightly against the counter. "When would you go?"
"Tomorrow," Viola said without hesitation. "It's better to handle these things early."
Silas glanced at Tyler. "Tomorrow is your holiday, right?"
"Yes," Tyler answered.
"Good," Viola said immediately. "You'll come with us."
"What? this thing doesn't happen last time!" Tyler paused for half a second.
Not because he wanted to refuse he already knew he wouldn't but because he understood the things behind the request.
"Okay," he said.
Viola nodded, satisfied, as if the matter had never been in question.
The conversation shifted after that logistics, timing, what documents might be needed but Tyler's attention drifted. Future is slightly change even if he didn't interfere. but he can't fully blame because his personality is also changed from previous life.
That night, Tyler lay awake longer than usual.
He stared at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe. He had been inside Ignaros churches before many times, across both lives. He knew the rituals. The posture. The tone of voices. The way belief settled into a room without anyone noticing.
This time, he would walk in knowing exactly what it was.
Morning came early.
Viola was already dressed when Tyler came downstairs, her hair neat, her expression sharp and purposeful. Silas stood near the door, checking something on his phone, dressed simply but properly. Melissa moved between them, adjusting small things, her hands never still.
"Eat first," she told Tyler, placing a small plate in front of him.
He ate quietly.
Soon after, they left.
The city felt different in the morning light cleaner somehow, quieter. Shops were closed, shutters drawn. A few people walked the streets with the same destination in mind, their pace steady, respectful.
As they approached the church, the air itself seemed to change.
The Church of Ignaros rose from the street in dark stone and iron accents, its structure solid and unyielding. There were no elaborate curves, no excessive ornamentation. The building looked as if it had been built to endure rather than impress. Tall pillars flanked the entrance, carved with simple flame motifs worn smooth by time and touch.
Tyler slowed slightly as they reached the gate.
The doors stood open.
Inside, the space widened into a high-ceilinged hall. Light filtered in from narrow windows above, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The air smelled faintly of smoke and old incense. Every sound footsteps, breaths felt measured.
They entered without speaking.
Silas bowed his head slightly. Viola did the same. Tyler followed, copying the motion without effort. He knew where to place his hands, where to stand, when to move.
Prayer was quiet.
Not personal. Not emotional.
It was structured words spoken low, movements repeated, a rhythm passed down until no one questioned it anymore. Tyler followed along, his thoughts steady, his eyes open when they weren't supposed to be.
When it was done, they approached one of the priests standing near the side of the hall.
He was older, his posture straight, his expression calm in a way that suggested practice rather than serenity.
"We'd like to speak with the administrator," Silas said politely. "Regarding wedding procedures."
The priest nodded. "Of course."
He turned and spoke briefly to another man nearby, then gestured for Silas and Viola to wait.
As they stood there, the priest glanced down at Tyler.
"You're welcome to join a session for children," he said kindly. "We're speaking about Ignaros today."
Tyler opened his mouth.
"He would love to," Viola said immediately, her tone bright and certain.
She looked down at Tyler.
It wasn't a harsh look. It didn't need to be.
Tyler closed his mouth.
The priest smiled. "Very good."
He gestured for Tyler to follow him down a side corridor branching off from the main hall. Silas hesitated for a moment, then nodded to Tyler. Viola smiled approvingly.
Tyler stepped away from them without looking back.
As he followed the priest down the quieter passage, the sounds of the main hall faded. The walls here were closer, the light dimmer. Somewhere ahead, voices carried children's voices.
Tyler walked on, calm and obedient on the outside, already knowing exactly what he was about to hear.
And why this time, it mattered.
The corridor opened into a wider room.
It wasn't a sanctuary like the main prayer hall, nor was it a classroom in the way Tyler understood one. The ceiling was lower, the walls closer, lined with carved stone panels etched with flame symbols and short phrases Tyler had seen countless times before. Wooden benches filled the space in even rows, their surfaces smoothed by years of use.
Several children were already seated.
Some swung their legs idly. Others sat stiffly, backs straight, hands folded as if instructed to do so long ago. A few adults lingered near the back wall parents, guardians, or simply believers who had stayed to listen.
The priest gestured gently. "Sit wherever you like."
Tyler scanned the room briefly, then chose a bench near the middle.
Not close enough to be noticed.Not far enough to seem detached.
He sat down, feet flat on the stone floor, hands resting loosely in his lap. The bench creaked faintly beneath his weight, then settled. Around him, whispers died down as the priest moved to the front of the room.
Tyler exhaled slowly.
He had heard this story before.
Not just once, but dozens of times fragments in childhood, fuller sermons in adolescence, repetitions in adulthood. And even before this life, in another body, another time. The words changed slightly, the emphasis shifted, but the core never did.
This time, it wasn't for him.
It was for the reader.
The priest stood before them, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight and unyielding. His voice, when he spoke, filled the room without effort.
"Children," he began, "today we speak of Lord Ignaros."
A few of the younger ones straightened immediately at the name.
"Lord Ignaros," the priest continued, "is the god who endured when the world could not."
He paced slowly as he spoke, footsteps measured.
"Long ago, when humanity was weak and divided, the world was not as it is now. There was disorder. Conflict. Suffering without restraint."
The children listened, eyes following him.
"In those days, people prayed for mercy. For balance. For peace." The priest paused, letting the words hang. "But mercy does not stop destruction. Balance does not protect the helpless. Peace cannot survive when the world itself is cruel."
Tyler's gaze remained steady.
Here it is, he thought. The framing.
"Lord understood this," the priest said. "He did not look away from suffering. He did not wait for it to pass. He faced it."
One of the children leaned forward, eyes bright.
"Ignaros is the god of fire," the priest went on. "Fire that hardens steel. Fire that burns away weakness. Fire that tests what is real."
He raised a hand slightly, palm open. "Strength is not cruelty. Strength is responsibility. Without it, nothing endures."
Tyler felt the familiar shape of the doctrine settle into the room.
Strength as virtue.Endurance as morality.
The priest's tone shifted, becoming firmer.
"There are other gods," he acknowledged, almost reluctantly. "You may hear their names."
A few children murmured.
"Veyra speaks of order and discipline," the priest said. "But order without strength collapses the moment it is challenged."
He moved on without pause.
"Solaris speaks of harmony and light. Peace is desirable but peace alone cannot defend the innocent."
Another step.
"Lunara speaks of balance and reflection. Balance is comforting, but comfort does not stop a blade."
The dismissals were clean. Efficient.
No insults. No rage.
Just insufficiency.
Tyler noted how carefully it was done.
"These beliefs are not evil," the priest concluded. "They are simply incomplete."
A child near the front raised their hand hesitantly.
"Yes?" the priest said.
"Why didn't the other gods help more?" the child asked. "If the world was so bad."
The room went quiet.
The priest looked at the child for a long moment, then answered calmly.
"Because seeing a problem is not the same as solving it," he said. "Ignaros acted."
The answer ended the question.
No further discussion followed.
The priest resumed his pacing. "Ignaros teaches us that suffering is not injustice. It is a test. Endurance is proof. Strength is survival."
Several children nodded, some without fully understanding why.
Tyler watched their faces.
Inspiration.Confusion.Boredom.
And acceptance.
"This is why the Church exists," the priest said. "Not to comfort you. But to prepare you."
Prepare.
The word echoed quietly in Tyler's mind.
No mention of rewards.No promise of miracles.No talk of power.
Only readiness.
The priest spoke of duty, of perseverance, of standing firm when others falter. His words were measured, controlled, designed to settle deep rather than excite. This was not passion.
This was conditioning.
Tyler listened without resistance.
He compared it, silently, to the Horned God.
No sermons.No virtue.Only transaction.
One demanded belief.The other demanded cost.
The session ended without ceremony.
"You may go," the priest said gently. "Remember Ignaros in your actions."
The children stood, benches scraping softly against the floor. Some chatted immediately, others stayed quiet. Tyler rose with them, blending easily into the movement as they filed out through the side corridor.
The air felt lighter outside the room.
He walked back toward the main hall, where Silas and Viola waited near one of the stone pillars. Viola turned as soon as she saw him.
"There you are," she said. "What did you learn?"
Tyler considered his answer.
"About Ignaros," he said simply.
Viola nodded, satisfied. Silas studied him for a moment longer, eyes thoughtful, then placed a hand lightly on his shoulder.
They left the church together.
Outside, the city noise returned slowly, as if the world was easing back into place. Tyler glanced once over his shoulder at the dark stone structure behind them.
Religion did not give power.
It shaped people to accept it.
And as they walked home beneath the open sky, Tyler understood something clearly, without fear or confusion.
This flame did not burn the world.
It taught people how to endure being burned.