Arkan Lawrence
The heavy wooden door of the church stood before us, weathered by time but maintained with care. The setting sun cast a golden glow on the building's roof, giving it an aura of grandeur tinged with unease.
I knocked lightly but firmly enough for the sound to resonate through the still air. The knock echoed, amplifying the village's eerie silence.
Moments later, footsteps approached. The door creaked open, revealing a young woman standing in the threshold.
She appeared to be in her early twenties, around Rainer's age or perhaps slightly younger. Her chestnut hair flowed neatly down her back, and her striking aquamarine eyes radiated warmth. Her clean and composed appearance was a stark contrast to the haggard villagers outside.
"Good evening," she greeted, her voice soft yet firm, scanning us with a curious but welcoming gaze. "How can I help you?"
I hesitated briefly, unable to ignore how out of place she seemed in a desolate village like this. There was something almost unreal about her presence—like a painting that didn't quite match its frame.
Rainer stepped forward, taking the lead as usual. "We were sent by Marquis Arleon to investigate the situation in this village. Is Father Howard here?"
The woman appeared momentarily startled, but her expression quickly softened into a polite smile. "Ah, you must be the people Marquis sent. My name is Clara. I assist Father Howard here at the church."
Clara Winfield.
That name immediately rang a bell. The memories of the novel surged forward, bringing with them the weight of her significance. The first heroine. The pivotal turning point for Rainer's fractured journey.
"I'm Arkan," I introduced myself, offering a friendly smile while keeping my tone light. "This is Rainer. We're here to lend a hand."
"Thank you for coming," Clara said earnestly, though her aquamarine eyes betrayed a hint of worry. "Father Howard is inside. Please, come in. I'll let him know you're here."
She stepped aside, granting us passage.
Inside, the church was spacious, its simplicity adorned with reverence. Wooden pews lined the hall, aged but still sturdy, and stained-glass windows depicted serene religious imagery bathed in soft hues of light. The warm glow of tall candles cast flickering shadows that lent the room a solemn serenity.
"What have you heard about the village before coming here?" Clara asked suddenly, breaking the silence as we made our way in.
I glanced at Rainer, who remained quiet, then decided to answer. "We've heard that the village is suffering from a serious illness."
She nodded, her expression somber. "Yes. Many people are unwell. But Father Howard has worked tirelessly to help us. Without him, we might have lost even more lives."
Her sincerity was evident as she spoke of Father Howard with unwavering respect and conviction.
"Have you been affected by this illness yourself?" I inquired cautiously.
She looked surprised by the question, then shook her head. "No… I've been fortunate enough to avoid it. But I do my best to help those who have been affected."
Finally, Rainer broke his silence. "Has Father Howard mentioned anything about the cause of this illness?"
Clara's smile faltered slightly as her gaze lowered. "Not precisely. He's said it might be a trial from God."
A "trial from God," huh? I masked my skepticism, schooling my features into a neutral expression. That sounded like the sort of excuse someone would give to deflect scrutiny.
"Then we'll wait to speak with him directly," I said, steering the conversation away from any further prying.
Clara nodded, offering a faint smile. "Very well. Please, have a seat. I'll let him know you're here."
With a light step, she disappeared through a door at the back of the church. As her figure vanished, I found myself processing everything I'd observed so far.
I turned to Rainer and spoke in a low voice. "What's your take on her?"
He gave a small shrug, his sharp eyes scanning the room. "She doesn't seem dangerous. But I'm not drawing any conclusions yet."
A small smirk tugged at my lips. Of course, he wouldn't. "Fair point," I replied softly.
I let my thoughts drift momentarily, stealing one more glance at the door Clara had passed through.
Clara… She truly looked like the flawless illustration that had adorned the pages of the novel. Silken hair, glowing aquamarine eyes, and a gentle smile that seemed untainted by the world's darkness. She was a beacon of purity in a bleak, fractured existence.
Her personality mirrored the way she was written: kindhearted, trusting, and completely selfless.
It was ironic, really. Clara didn't belong in a world riddled with shadows, but that contrast made her integral to the story's unfolding tragedies. Her innocence was both her greatest strength and her gravest flaw.
"Clara has a lot of faith in Father Howard," I observed, reigniting the conversation.
Rainer nodded slightly, his expression grim. "That's to be expected. People here don't seem to have many options. If not for the church, they might have given up entirely."
And yet, I knew there was far more to this story. If the events of the original plot held true, Father Howard wasn't the hero these people thought he was. He was the catalyst for their suffering. A devoted acolyte of the Evil God, masquerading as a devout servant of the divine.
The minutes ticked by in heavy silence, until at last the back door creaked open. The sound of calm, deliberate footsteps echoed across the chamber.
He appeared as I remembered.
Father Howard.
Clad in pristine white robes trimmed with golden embroidery, he projected an air of humility. His thin, angular face bore a kindly smile that could melt away suspicions at a glance. But it was his eyes—deep, dark, and impenetrable—that sent a shiver of unease down my spine.
"Welcome," he greeted, his voice smooth yet commanding. "I am Father Howard. I've been informed that you were sent by Marquis Arleon. How may I assist you?"
I rose to my feet, adopting a polite yet guarded stance. "My name is Arkan, and this is Rainer. We've indeed been sent by the Marquis to investigate the conditions here in the village."
Rainer gave a curt nod, allowing me to take the lead.
Father Howard's smile deepened, though the warmth in it felt rehearsed. "We are most grateful for the Marquis's attention. This village has faced countless hardships, and your presence here is invaluable to us."
I studied his every movement carefully. Everything about him—his serene demeanor, his measured gestures—was calculated to elicit trust. And yet, knowing what lay beneath the surface of his facade, I could not shake my wariness.
"Father Howard," I began cautiously, keeping my tone respectful, "we've heard this illness has persisted for quite some time. Could you share with us what you've observed about the situation?"
His dark eyes flickered momentarily, though his expression remained steady. "Of course," he said smoothly. "I would be more than willing to recount what I've seen."
And so, the game of shadows began.