The cathedral was a battlefield cloaked in smoke and chaos. The remnants of the assassin's explosive ball crackled in the air, its fiery aftermath scattering debris and leaving scorch marks on the ancient stone walls.
Gareth's form, battered and bloodied, lay several feet away from where he had swung the steel rod with all his might. The force of the explosion had hurled him back, sending him sprawling across the cold floor. His armour bore fresh dents and burns, and blood from his earlier wounds seeped through his tunic, staining the floor beneath him.
For a moment, silence reigned, save for the distant crackling of embers and the faint sound of children's frightened sobs.
Sister Maria, surrounded by the children, clutched them tightly to her. Her gaze darted between the fallen debris where Father Wingate and the trapped child were buried, and Gareth's motionless form. The fear in her chest swelled.
"Gareth…" she whispered, her voice trembling.
