The walk back to the church passed in near-silence.
Sister Anne kept her stride measured, greeting fellow sisters and the occasional villager with a polite nod or a soft "Good morning."
Each exchange was brief, courteous… and followed by murmurs the moment their backs turned.
Adriel heard every one.
"Poor Sister Anne… burdened with that child."
"Heavens preserve us, he roams the streets freely now."
"Do they not fear what he'll become?"
They did not bother to lower their voices. Some even paused their gossip only when Anne happened to glance their way.
Adriel's jaw tightened, though his face remained impassive—just as she had taught him. His small fists curled once at his sides, loosening only when Anne placed a light hand on his shoulder to guide him around a puddle.
He straightened, settled, forced each breath to steady.
The church grounds soon came into view.
Years of quiet work had altered the place—subtly, but clearly. The outer stones had been scrubbed clean of old grime; ivy had been cut back so the windows could breathe.
A modest garden grew along the walkway, tended carefully enough that winter frost had not claimed every sprout.
Inside, the changes continued.
The entryway had been swept clean, rugs laid flat and newly mended. A set of wooden shelves stood against the wall—simple, but functional—holding spare candles and prayer scrolls. The faint scent of lavender soap drifted through the hall, mingling with incense from the morning rites.
Anne closed the church door behind them with a quiet thmp.
"Go to Father Titus in the main hall," she said, brushing a droplet from his hair. "I shall prepare your bath. Quickly now."
Adriel nodded. "Thank you, Sister Anne," he murmured.
She frowned—not unkindly—and leaned slightly to adjust his shoulders. "You must speak straight and clear. None of this lowering your head. Again."
He inhaled and lifted his chin. "Yes, Sister Anne."
Her expression softened. "Good." She turned, her steps brisk as she headed down the right corridor. Her habit swayed behind her as she rounded the corner and vanished from sight.
Adriel lingered a moment, watching the space she'd disappeared into. Then he faced the main hall and walked forward.
The hall remained dim, lit only by the lanterns hung along the arches. Father Titus stood near the far wall—the obsidian slab—head bowed, hands clasped behind his back. Words glimmered faintly upon the stone, appearing and fading in a slow rhythm.
"Pacem Domini ferrent cordibus nostris… pacem per ignem, pacem per judicium…"
The prayer's cadence was firm, not soft; a plea for peace delivered through discipline rather than mercy.
Adriel approached quietly, stopping at Titus's side. He stole a quick glance at the priest, then joined the chant—softly at first, his voice barely brushing the air.
"…pacem per judicium…"
As the chant continued through harsher lines—punishment for heretics, condemnation of the unforgivable—his voice grew steadier, stronger, aligning with the hard-edged tone etched into the wall.
During those verses, Father Titus's lips curved into a faint smile.
The final syllables faded.
The priest lifted his head and finally turned to Adriel. His gaze slipped immediately to the damp patches on the boy's shirt and sleeves.
"Did someone trouble you during your morning duties?"
Adriel lowered his head by habit—then stopped, straightened, and answered clearly, "Yes… but Sister Anne handled it."
A soft chuckle escaped Titus. "I do not doubt that."
He exhaled and folded his hands behind his back again. "Forgive my early summons, but I have been praying on the matter of your future. You are still quite young, yes… but far too exceptionally bright to waste your gifts on simple tasks."
Adriel's breath caught. His eyes widened, trembling with contained excitement. "You mean… I may finally begin training as an Acolyte?"
Titus shook his head slowly.
"No, Adriel."
The boy's heart thudded. He blinked once, uncertain.
Titus's voice softened—not gentle, but solemn.
"What I want is for you to begin training… as a Black Mantle."
The words struck the air with a weight beyond the boy's years.
And Adriel could only stare—caught between awe and something far odder stirring in his chest.
"A Black Mantle…?"
Adriel repeated the words as though they tasted strange. His earlier excitement faltered. "Is that… where halflings like myself are sent?"
His voice cracked more from worry than fear.
Father Titus laid a palm atop the obsidian slab beside him. He shook his head with a gentle smile.
"No, child. Sister Anne has done well teaching you the ecclesiastical ranks—but she has not yet covered the inquisitorial ones."
Adriel blinked, brows knitting. "Inquisitors have ranks as well? I thought they were simply chosen by the Saint." He hesitated, rubbing his wrist. "Sister Anne said it would be wiser for me to try and become a Father. Like you. Then I could help others like myself."
Titus stepped closer, placing a steady hand on the boy's shoulder. His grip was light, but firm enough that the boy felt anchored.
"I understand Sister Anne's hopes for you." His voice softened, though its weight remained. "Had you been wholly human, I do not doubt that with your mind you would rise all the way to Archbishop."
Adriel's lips parted—hope flickering.
"But," Titus continued, "the upper church relies deeply on politics… and old traditions. You would face hardship there. Far more than most. Particularly given the nature of creature you are."
The words were spoken kindly. Still, they cut.
Adriel's gaze dropped to the floor, his voice barely above a whisper. "So… I cannot become a Father like you?"
Titus squeezed his shoulder once. "You may become anything you set your mind toward, dear Adriel. But some paths are crueler to certain souls than others."
Disappointment dulled the boy's eyes. He understood. He didn't want to, but he did. He had hoped—prayed—that excellence might erase the blood in his veins.
His hand curled at his side.
"So then…" he managed, "how would inquisitors be any different? They… they execute creatures like me, do they not?"
"No, Adriel," Titus said, stepping back so he could meet the boy's eyes. "Many inquisitors despise what is not human, yes. But many more are fair and just in their judgment. And most importantly—their advancement is based on merit, diligence, and faith. An inquisitor is the sword of the Origin."
His voice deepened—not harshly, but with conviction.
"Whether halfling or human, they command respect. From the people… and from the church. In time, even recognition can be earned."
Adriel searched the priest's face, trying to measure the truth behind the promise. "If it means I can prove I belong to the faith… then I am willing, Father."
Titus exhaled, a weary sound hidden beneath a smile. This had not been an easy choice. But the boy's future had fewer and fewer possible roads—and Titus had long felt the clock tightening around matters he could not yet reveal.
"Good," he said at last. "Formally, Black Mantles are trained by appointed instructors in each region. But given our circumstances, I shall train you myself. In five to seven years, when my tenure ends and I leave for a larger city to receive my advancement, I will bring you with me."
Adriel blinked, stunned. "I… I can go with you?"
"To meet a former pupil of mine," Titus finished. "They are an inquisitor proper now. Though I suspect they will reach High Inquisitor within the next three… perhaps four years."
Adriel's eyes trembled—in awe, not fear. "Is… is that a significant position?"
Titus chuckled quietly. "They stand equal to Archbishops."
The boy's jaw dropped a fraction. Titus smiled wider.
"I see you are excited."
Adriel nodded vigorously. "It sounds… incredible, Father."
"It will not be easy," Titus warned. "But should you prevail, you will not only serve humanity as I do—you will protect it."
Adriel drew himself up, fists tight with renewed purpose. "I am willing, Father!"
Before Titus could respond—
A soft throat-clearing sounded from the entry arch.
Sister Anne stood there, framed in the lantern glow. "My apologies for interrupting, Father. Adriel's bath is ready. The water will chill soon if he does not enter."
Titus gestured gently. "Run along, Adriel."
The boy bowed his head respectfully and hurried toward Anne. As he passed her, he slipped by without a word—still breathless from all he'd just been told.
Anne watched him go, her expression unreadable. Only when he vanished down the hallway did she turn to Titus… a faint frown pulling at her mouth.