-----Chapter 14: The Pact of Uncertainty-----
The cathedral was drowning in silence.
Not the silence of peace. Not the silence of reverence.
This was the silence before war.
The torches flickered, their glow casting jagged shadows across the cracked stone floor. The high ceiling, once grand and adorned with murals of divine triumph, now loomed overhead like a hollow shell. The scent of old stone, damp wood, and lingering blood clung to the air.
Sylvian sat on a broken pew, his greatsword propped against his knee. His fingers traced the worn leather grip, though his focus never left the woman standing before him. His gaze was unreadable, but sharp. Watching. Measuring.
"An alliance?" His voice was calm, but the disbelief bled through. His head tilted slightly, as if waiting for her to correct herself. "You expect me to fight beside someone who still kneels to the gods I swore to destroy?"
Sofia didn't flinch.
Her hands, bare and calloused, remained at her sides, though her fingers curled slightly, pressing against the fabric of her robes. Her expression was steady, her eyes locked onto his, unwavering.
"This isn't about faith," she said, her voice carrying over the heavy air. "It's about survival. Your knights can fight, but they can't be everywhere. My people can heal, shelter the weak, and gather the lost before the darkness takes them. Alone, we fall. Together, we stand a chance."
A scoff came from the side.
Varen shifted, arms crossed over his chest. The torchlight carved deep lines into his face, hardening his already sharp features. His brow furrowed, his mouth pressing into a thin line as his fingers drummed against his armored forearm.
"You think we need you?" Sylvian leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. The movement was slow, deliberate. His lips curled—not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer. "We've protected what remains of this world with our own hands. We didn't need a saint telling us to pray while we buried the ones who already did."
The fire crackled, its soft popping the only sound that followed.
Sofia's jaw tightened. Her throat burned with words she wanted to throw back at him, but she swallowed them down. This wasn't the moment for pride.
Then, Varen stepped forward. His boots scraped against the stone, slow and deliberate. His fingers clenched, then relaxed. His stare burned into Sofia, his expression unreadable—until he spoke.
"You talk about saving people," he said, his voice low but sharp, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. "But tell me, Saintess—who have you saved?"
The words cut through the air, heavy enough that even the knights behind him shifted uncomfortably.
Sofia's lips parted slightly, but before she could speak, Varen took another step.
"Did you stand with us when the world burned?" His voice rose, not in anger, but in something colder. Something that had been sharpened by grief and too many graves. "Did you hear the screams? Did you watch as children prayed to the gods while monsters tore their families apart?"
Sofia stiffened.
Varen didn't stop.
"We didn't pray, Saintess." His eyes darkened, his knuckles turning white as his fists clenched. "We fought. We bled. We carried the dying on our backs while you whispered salvation to corpses."
A tense stillness filled the space between them.
Some of the knights shifted, their gazes flickering toward Sylvian, waiting for his reaction. Others looked away, staring at the ground, their expressions unreadable.
Sofia inhaled slowly.
"I do not fight for the gods," she said, voice firm, but quiet.
Varen's expression flickered, just for a second.
"I fight for the ones who are too broken to fight for themselves. For the ones who wake up screaming. For the ones who have lost their will to move forward."
Her shoulders straightened.
"I do not care if the gods answer or not." Her voice was unwavering now. "I care about the people who still breathe."
The tension in the cathedral shifted.
Not lessened. Not broken.
But changed.
Varen exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. His shoulders dropped, just a fraction. He looked at Sylvian.
Sofia took a step forward.
Then—
She did something she had never done before.
She lowered her head.
Not in submission. Not in defeat.
But in plea.
"I am not asking for your faith." The firelight flickered against the side of her face, casting shadows under her tired eyes. "I am asking for your strength." Her fingers curled into fists. "Because without it, more will die."
The silence stretched.
The knights exchanged glances. Some looked unsure. Others… thoughtful.
Sylvian exhaled.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, his movements carrying the weight of the choice before him. He looked at Sofia—not as a priestess, not as a follower of gods he despised.
As someone who stood at the edge of a battlefield, just as he did.
"Fine."
Sofia's breath caught.
"We will form an alliance."
But then, he raised a finger.
"On my terms."
The torches flickered. The air grew colder.
"If the gods so much as breathe the wrong way toward my people, I will rip their throats out myself." His voice was steady, but the weight behind it was absolute.
He took a step closer.
"If you or your followers try to force your faith onto those who have already suffered enough, I will cut you down where you stand."
A pause.
"And if this alliance is a lie—if you are anything like the gods you claim to no longer follow—you will pay the price."
Sofia's hands trembled—just slightly.
She hesitated.
Then—
"I accept."
The words left her lips with finality.
The deal was made.
The pact was sealed.
But in the ruins of a forgotten cathedral, where faith had long since turned to ash, there was no trust.
Only a temporary ceasefire in a war yet to be fought.
---
Sofia turned without another word. The heavy silence clung to her as she stepped away, her boots pressing against the cold stone, the faint echo following her like a ghost. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the weight of the pact settled onto her shoulders with every movement.
The flickering torchlight cast her shadow long and distorted against the ruined walls, stretching beside those of the knights who still watched her with wary eyes. Their silence was louder than any protest, their distrust carved into their stiffened postures, their tightened grips on their weapons. Even now, even after the agreement had been made, the line between ally and enemy remained blurred.
As she reached the cathedral's entrance, she hesitated. The wind from the outside world howled softly through the shattered doors, carrying with it the distant scent of ash and decay. She exhaled, slow and steady, then stepped forward, disappearing into the night.
The alliance had been made. A fragile bond, built not on faith or trust, but on a single, unshakable truth.
Humanity had to survive.
And if this pact failed—if the distrust lurking beneath their words ever shattered the fragile balance they had formed—then the war to come would not be against the monsters of the Lower Realm.
It would be against each other.