Infinity: Reborn

The Church of Solaris stood at Light’s Beacon’s heart, its whitewashed walls luminous even beneath the late afternoon’s heavy clouds. Mathias paused at the threshold, rainwater dripping from his cloak onto sacred stone. Inside, candles flickered in neat rows, and the air carried traces of incense and beeswax.

He knelt at the altar rail, fingers trembling as they formed the sun-sign over his chest.

“Blessed Solaris, purifier of corruption, guardian of the faithful…” The words emerged automatically, shaped by decades of repetition. “Cleanse my heart of doubt. Strengthen my resolve against the deceiver’s whispers.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the familiar comfort of prayer to wash away the images that plagued him.

Nothing came. Only silence and the soft patter of rain against stained glass.

Mathias pressed his forehead against clasped hands and tried again. “I have walked among demons and witnessed their works. Grant me clarity to see their evil for what it truly is.”

Sera’s laugh echoed through memory, bright and unguarded as she’d celebrated finally completing a disarm manouvre correctly. “Did you see that? I actually got it right!”

He shook his head sharply. Focus. Prayer required focus.

“Show me the truth of their nature, that I might serve Your will with unwavering faith.”

A demon mother had cradled her wounded child while a human healer worked beside her, their hands moving in concert to clean and bind the injury. Neither had hesitated. Neither had questioned.

“Please,” Mathias whispered, abandoning formal liturgy. “Just… show me something. Anything.”

The candles continued their steady burning. The rain maintained its rhythm. The silence stretched until it became its own answer.

If demons were truly evil incarnate, why had they treated him with kindness? If demon blood corrupted absolutely, why had Sera risked herself to save strangers during the tunnel attack? If demonic influence meant only destruction, why did Umbra’s streets show cooperation instead of chaos?

And if all that was true… what did it mean about his parents?

Father—executed for consorting with demons. Mother—burned for corrupting human blood. He’d spent over thirty years accepting those sentences as just, as necessary.

“What crime could a child that age possibly commit?” The question surfaced unbidden, attached to the image of a five-year-old with a fresh brand.

What crime had he committed at seven, beyond being born?

Mathias stood abruptly, the altar rail’s edge catching him mid-thigh. His breathing came shallow and quick, the church’s clean air suddenly suffocating.

The purification hadn’t been real. He understood that now, intellectually. But if that was false, if his parents hadn’t deserved execution, if demons weren’t inherently evil…

His entire existence became a lie built on lies.

Mathias fled the church, bursting into rain-washed air that felt blessedly cool against his flushed face. He walked without direction, letting his feet carry him toward the village’s eastern edge.

Children’s laughter drew his attention. A cluster of youngsters played in a sheltered courtyard, their game involving careful jumps across puddles while a slightly older girl called encouragement.

Demon children had played the same game in Umbra’s second ring. He’d watched from a rooftop while gathering intelligence, noting their positions and routines. The pattern had been identical—the same careful jumps, the same delighted squeals when someone misjudged the distance.

Something fundamental shifted in his chest. These human children and those demon children shared the same capacity for joy, the same innocence.

Something is wrong with me. The thought arrived with crystalline clarity. The demons corrupted my thinking. Twisted my perception.

That had to be the answer. Umbra’s atmosphere, saturated with dark magic, must have affected his judgment. Distance and prayer would restore his proper perspective.

Except prayer had offered nothing. And the distance only made his doubts sharper.

He needed help. Real help, from someone whose wisdom extended beyond rigid doctrine.

Father Gallivan. The name surfaced with the force of certainty. Twenty years since their last conversation—a brief, awkward encounter when Mathias had reported his official acceptance into the Purifying Flame’s ranks. The old priest had looked… sad. Disappointed, even.

But Father Gallivan had raised him after the purification. Had taught him to read, to think, to question respectfully. Had never treated him as corrupted or less-than.

If anyone could help untangle this mess, it would be him.

Mathias turned toward the road leading deeper into Solarian territory, toward Kelmar’s Rest and St. Radiance Monastery. Toward answers, or absolution, or whatever awaited at journey’s end.

* * *

The tomato plants needed staking before the afternoon rain returned. Gallivan worked methodically down the row, his weathered hands securing each stem with practiced efficiency while keeping one eye on the children scattered throughout the garden.

“Careful with those carrots, Marcus!” He didn’t raise his voice, but the boy froze mid-reach. “We’ve talked about pulling versus digging around first.”

“Yes, Father Gallivan.” Marcus adjusted his grip, applying the technique they’d practiced last week.

Satisfied, Gallivan returned to his staking. The garden provided perhaps a third of the monastery’s food—enough to matter during lean months, not enough to sustain them alone. But the children learned valuable skills here, and the work kept his own hands occupied when prayer alone proved insufficient.

Laughter erupted near the bean poles. Three girls had turned watering duty into some elaborate game involving careful footwork and exaggerated dodging. Soil flew in small clods.

“Mind the roots, please.” Gallivan straightened, pressing one hand against his lower back. “Those beans won’t forgive careless trampling, and neither will Brother Aldric’s cooking pot.”

The girls settled immediately, though their giggles continued at a more acceptable volume.

A shadow fell across the gate. Gallivan glanced up, expecting Brother Aldric with news about the afternoon’s lessons, and went completely still.

Mathias stood in the entrance, fingers wrapped around the iron bars.

Twenty years hadn’t touched him. The same angular face, the same amber eyes—though the tinted spectacles were missing—the same dark auburn hair. Half-demons aged differently than humans, their supernatural heritage preserving youth long past the point where mortal flesh began its decline.

But everything else told a different story. Ragged travel cloak. Mud-stained boots. Exhaustion carved into every line of his body, the kind that came from sleepless nights rather than hard riding. And his eyes…

Gallivan had seen that expression before, on soldiers returning from campaigns that broke something fundamental inside them.

“Children.” He kept his voice steady, gentle. “Why don’t you finish the watering near the chapel? I’ll check your work before supper.”

Marcus opened his mouth to protest, noticed Gallivan’s expression, and thought better of it. The boy gathered his friends with whispered instructions, herding them toward the far side of the grounds with the efficiency of someone accustomed to reading subtle adult cues.

When their voices faded to distant murmurs, Gallivan set down his stakes and approached the gate. Each step felt weighted with the memory of their last conversation—Mathias in his crisp new uniform, explaining his appointment to the Purifying Flame with such desperate pride. And Gallivan’s own failure to hide his disappointment, the words he’d swallowed because speaking them would only drive the wedge deeper.

He’d hoped distance and time might temper the boy’s zeal. Hoped the organisation’s realities might eventually reveal themselves. Hoped—foolishly, perhaps—that Mathias might one day return seeking a different path.

“Mathias.” He reached the gate, studying the younger man’s face. “It’s been a long time.”

“Twenty years.” Mathias’s voice came rough, as though he hadn’t spoken in days. “I… I know we didn’t part well.”

“You chose your road.” Gallivan kept judgment from his tone. “I simply wished it had been a different one.”

“I need…” Mathias’s composure cracked slightly, his fingers tightening on the gate. “Father, I need your help.”

* * *

Father Gallivan’s study looked exactly as Mathias remembered—simple wooden desk, worn prayer books stacked beside a single candle, the faint smell of old paper and incense. The same chair creaked under his weight as he sat, while Gallivan settled across from him with the infinite patience that had defined their relationship decades ago.

“Tell me what gnaws at your mind, Mathias.”

The words hung in the air between them. Mathias opened his mouth, closed it. Where could he possibly begin? How did you confess that everything you’d built your life upon might be constructed on sand?

His hands twisted together in his lap. “I was on assignment. In the Wastelands. The Purifying Flame sent me to—” He cut himself off, the specifics of his mission suddenly feeling like a betrayal. “To gather intelligence on demon activity.”

“Go on.” No judgment in Gallivan’s voice. Just that maddening, gentle encouragement.

“It wasn’t my first time there.” The words came faster now, defensive. “I’ve operated in demon territories before. I’ve seen what they are, what they do. Everything always confirmed what I’d been taught. The chaos, the violence, the…” He gestured vaguely. “The wrongness of their existence.”

Gallivan remained silent, his weathered hands folded on the desk.

“Or perhaps I never looked closely enough.” The admission tasted bitter. “Perhaps I only saw what I expected to see. What I needed to see to justify—”

He couldn’t finish that thought.

“Then I met someone.” Sera’s face flashed through his mind, her earnest smile when she’d asked him to teach her swordplay. “A half-demon woman. She was… kind. Genuinely kind, not manipulative or deceitful. She wanted to protect people, to help them. And I told myself she was an exception, an anomaly, but…”

The dam cracked wider.

“But then I started noticing others. A mother teaching her child to read. Merchants discussing fair prices with human traders. Soldiers who laughed together but maintained discipline. They had structure, Gallivan. Order. Purpose beyond destruction.” His voice rose slightly. “They were building something, not tearing things down.”

Mathias stood abruptly, pacing to the window. The monastery gardens stretched below, peaceful in the afternoon light. Everything in the Solarian Empire looked peaceful from a distance.

“On my way back, I encountered a demon family fleeing Solarian raiders, our raiders. Their home burned because it was too close to border. The children—” His throat tightened. “The children asked me for stories. They trusted me. Just like the orphans here trust you.”

He turned back to face Gallivan. “I saw a five-year-old boy with a fresh heretic brand on his face. Five years old. And I kept thinking about all the demon children I’d seen playing in the streets, and they looked exactly the same. The same innocence, the same laughter.”

“What are you asking me, Mathias?”

“I don’t know!” The words burst out. “I came here thinking—hoping—you could tell me I’ve been corrupted by dark magic. That what I witnessed was illusion or manipulation.”

He sank back into the chair, exhausted. “If demons aren’t inherently evil, then what does that mean? What does it mean about my parents’ execution? About the purification rituals? About everything I’ve done for the Purifying Flame?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “What does it mean about who I am?”

Gallivan’s expression remained unreadable, but something shifted in his eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Or grief.

“Father, I watched people—demons, yes, but people—work together to survive. I saw them show mercy when they could have chosen cruelty. I saw them care for their wounded enemies.” Mathias met Gallivan’s gaze directly. “And I realized I’ve never seen the Purifying Flame do any of those things.”

The admission hung between them like a confession before an altar.

“Tell me I’m wrong. Please. Tell me what I witnessed was a carefully constructed deception, and that everything I’ve believed for forty-one years is true.”

* * *

Gallivan stared at the young man before him—though “young” meant something different for one with demon blood. Forty-one years, and Mathias looked scarcely older than the twenty-year-old who’d stood in this very office announcing his intention to join the Purifying Flame. The same face that had broken Gallivan’s heart all those years ago, now bearing an expression of such profound confusion that it hurt to witness.

The silence stretched between them, not empty but heavy with unspoken truths.

“What you’ve witnessed was the real truth, Mathias.”

The words felt like stones dropping into still water. Mathias’s head jerked up, amber eyes wide with shock and something that might have been desperate hope.

Gallivan leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “What you witnessed wasn’t illusion or corruption. You saw demons living as people live—trying to survive, to protect their families, to build something better than what they have.”

“But the Purifying Flame—”

“Exists for a reason,” Gallivan interrupted gently. “There are demons who embody every terrible thing you’ve been taught. Creatures who delight in suffering, who corrupt and destroy simply because they can. The threat is real, Mathias. The Purifying Flame arose from genuine need to protect people from genuine horrors.”

He picked up a quill from his desk, turning it slowly between his fingers. “But somewhere along the way, like most institutions given unchecked power and divine mandate, it became something else. Something that sees only threats, only corruption, only evil that must be purged.” His voice hardened slightly. “Something that brands five-year-old children as heretics because of the circumstances of their birth.”

Mathias made a strangled sound.

“You asked me to tell you that you’re wrong.” Gallivan set the quill down. “I can’t. Because you’re finally seeing clearly, perhaps for the first time since you left this monastery. And I’m grateful for that, even as I grieve what it will cost you.”

“Father—”

“This is why I didn’t want you to join them.” The words came out more forceful than intended. “I saw the kind, gentle boy you were, and I knew what they would make of you. What they would demand you become to survive in their ranks.” He met Mathias’s gaze directly. “I failed to protect you from that path. I’ve carried that failure for twenty years.”

Mathias shook his head, voice breaking. “You didn’t fail. I made that choice.”

“And now you face another.” Gallivan stood slowly, moving to the window. The children had finished their garden work and were heading toward the dining hall, their laughter drifting through the glass. “What you do from here depends entirely on you. But understand this—the doubts you’re experiencing now will not fade. They will only grow stronger, demanding answers you may not be ready to hear.”

He turned back. “Eventually, you’ll reach a crossroads. And at that crossroads, only two paths will lie before you.”

The implication hung unspoken between them.

“I can’t exactly leave the Purifying Flame.” Mathias’s voice was hollow. “You know that.”

“I know.”

The two words carried the weight of everything Gallivan understood about the organisation Mathias had devoted his life to. Once a member, there was no resignation, no peaceful retirement, no walking away. The knowledge they possessed, the secrets they’d learned, made them far too dangerous to ever truly release.

“Even the elderly serve as supporting staff until the end,” Gallivan continued quietly. “Archivists, trainers, advisors—they find uses for everyone. The only ones who leave the Purifying Flame are those carried out in shrouds.”

Mathias’s hands clenched on the armrests. “So what am I supposed to do? Just—endure? Pretend I haven’t seen what I’ve seen? Go back to reporting intelligence that will lead to more children being branded, more families destroyed?”

Gallivan returned to his chair, settling with a heaviness that had nothing to do with his physical form. “I think, Mathias, that you already know the answer to that question. You wouldn’t have come here otherwise.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating.

“What you choose next will define who you are,” Gallivan said finally. “Not what the Purifying Flame made you, not what your heritage dictates, but who you decide to become. And whatever path you take, know that the boy I raised—that gentle soul who cared deeply about justice and protecting the innocent—he’s still in there. He never truly left.”

Mathias stared at him, something raw and desperate in his expression.

“The question is whether you’ll listen to him.”