Raziel didn't turn around.
He felt that thing's gaze stuck to the back of his neck and his instinct, screamed a single order: Run.
But he couldn't. If he ran now, he'd raise suspicions.
If he showed fear, the Church would smell his weakness like sharks smell blood.
So he forced himself to walk toward the cathedral exit.
Crossing the threshold and feeling the afternoon sun on his face, the oppression vanished instantly.
"Shit..." he let out the air he had been holding.
He glanced sideways into the temple's darkness but there was nothing, just candles and silence.
The System hadn't popped up with any red alert, which was worse. It meant whatever was stalking him knew how to hide.
"Raziel?"
Lucian was leaning against a nearby column, with that perfect smile that made you want to wipe it off with a fist. He was surrounded by his usual entourage, shining like the "hero" from a fairy tale he thought he was.
"Quite the sermon, orphan," Lucian said, clapping slowly and sarcastically. "You almost made me cry. You have talent for theater, I'll give you that."
Raziel relaxed his shoulders, putting on his harmless novice mask.
"Faith isn't theater, Lucian," he replied calmly, although inside he was calculating how many seconds it would take to break his knee. "I only spoke the truth."
"Truth?" Lara appeared behind Lucian, pushing him slightly to pass. Her eyes were bright, intense. "It was more than that. It was... real. Brother Matthias was shaking, Raziel. No one had spoken like that in years."
Lucian scoffed, losing his smile.
"Beginner's luck. Anyone can whine about a sad past," he crossed his arms, looking at Raziel with disdain.
"But faith is useless if you don't have the brain to understand the Scriptures. The Scribe test is now. We'll see if your 'talent' helps you read High Zhalyrian."
Raziel held his gaze. 'Kid, I was reading High Zhalyrian before your grandfather learned to walk.'
"We'll see," Raziel said simply.
The Scribes' room smelled like old parchment, stale ink, and fear.
It was a dimly lit basement, full of rows of dark wood desks. Father Marius patrolled the aisles like a vulture, his black robe dragging on the stone floor.
"You have one hour," Marius announced with a sepulchral voice. "The text in front of you is a fragment of the Codex of Lamentations. Translate with precision. A mistake in the Goddess's word is blasphemy."
BAM!
The sound of scrolls unrolling filled the room.
Raziel looked at the text in front of him. The characters were angular, aggressive, written in an archaic variant of High Zhalyrian that the modern Church barely used.
But for Raziel, it was like reading a text he'd read a thousand times.
'The skies will open, not with light, but with fire, and the devotees will drink ash...'
Raziel felt a chill. 'This isn't an initiation text. This is a prophecy about the Invasion. Why are they giving this to novices?'
He looked around. Lucian was sweating, biting his quill.
Elijah was frowning, frantically consulting a dictionary.
Raziel dipped the quill in the inkwell. He had two options: fail on purpose and stay unnoticed, or do it perfectly and take the risk.
He remembered the shadow in the cathedral. He remembered he needed power, and fast. To access the forbidden archives, he needed to be the best.
'To hell with discretion.'
His hand moved on its own. The quill tore through the paper with violence. He wasn't translating; he was transcribing his memories.
The headache started hammering his temples, a side effect of forcing his fifteen-year-old brain with knowledge from a past life.
He finished in twenty minutes.
He put down the quill. The dry sound resonated in the tense silence of the room.
Father Marius stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his head slowly toward Raziel, eyes narrowed.
"Giving up so soon, initiate?"
"I finished, Father," Raziel said, his voice hoarse.
A murmur ran through the room. Lucian raised his head, in disbelief.
Marius approached, ripped the sheet from Raziel's desk, and held it close to a candle's light.
The old priest started reading with disdain, but as his eyes went down the page, his expression changed.
Disdain turned into surprise.
Marius lowered the paper slowly. His hands were shaking slightly.
"Brother Matthias," Marius called, without stopping looking at Raziel. "Come here. Now."
Matthias, a chubby and nervous man, trotted over. He read the paper over Marius's shoulder and let out an audible gasp.
"It's... it's perfect," Matthias whispered, pale. "No, it's more than perfect. Father, he used the syntax of the Golden Era. The word he used for 'Heaven' isn't Caelum, it's Aetherius. That term stopped being used three hundred years ago."
The whole room held its breath.
Father Marius leaned over Raziel's desk, invading his personal space. He smelled like incense and cold sweat.
"Who taught you this, boy?" he asked in a dangerous whisper. "Who taught you the forbidden dialects?"
"No one, Father," Raziel maintained eye contact, using all his willpower not to blink. "The text... spoke to me. I just followed the logic of faith."
"Logic?" Marius hit the table with his fist. "This isn't logic! This is arcane knowledge! A novice from the slums shouldn't know the difference between Divine Grace and the..." he stopped, looking at the text again "...and the Martyr's Curse."
Sister Elena, who was watching from a corner, approached with hesitant steps.
"Father Marius, maybe the boy is a prodigy. Zhalyr touches whoever He wants..."
"Or maybe something else has touched him," Marius cut in, and his eyes shone with the paranoia of an inquisitor. "Something dark."
The silence became heavy, suffocating. Raziel felt the air thicken. He knew what Marius was thinking. Heresy. Possession.
Marius straightened up slowly, smoothing his robe.
"Your translation is correct, Raziel. Too correct. Unnaturally correct."
The priest turned around, taking Raziel's parchment as if it were evidence of a crime.
"Passed," he spat the word. "But be careful, son. The line between divine genius and demonic corruption is very thin. And I will be watching you to see which side you fall on."
Marius walked away toward the shadows at the back of the room.
Raziel let out the air.
He had passed, yes. But now he had a target painted on his back bigger than the cathedral itself.
He looked at his hands, they were stained with black ink but it looked like dried blood.
[Class Mission: Scribe - COMPLETED][Reward: +2 Intelligence / +10 Reputation (Negative)]