Chapter 18: Artist of Ruin
The southern courtyard of the Church was a marble garden carved from arrogance. Ivory columns rose like the bones of saints, their surfaces veined with gold and weeping vines. In the center, beneath the watchful gaze of a hundred stained-glass saints, the fountain of Saint Halbrecht burbled endlessly. Today, it was less a place of meditation and more a stage.
I stood there, basking in the holy sun, dressed in high-collared silk and scandalously short robes, savoring the moment. Hollow was inside preparing for another sermon, but I? I was preparing for war. It was time to test the full capabilities of this form.
His name was Father Caldrin.
He had appeared three days ago, a relic from the Eastern Cathedral across the city, sent under the guise of "oversight." But the way he held his chin, the smug smile he gave Hollow during dinner, and the whispered words I overheard in the hall told the truth. Caldrin intended to seize control of the succession.
Tall, handsome in a brittle sort of way, and celibate by choice—which meant he was one well-placed moan away from moral collapse. He had been winning favor with the younger priests, poisoning Hollow’s reputation through veiled concerns about his past, his silence, his beauty.
"Brother Hollow is... perhaps too soft to lead," he had said at supper last night.
I nearly stabbed him with a fork.
But instead, I smiled. And plotted.
This morning, I requested an audience in the courtyard. Word spread fast. By noon, over two dozen clergy were lined along the marble balustrades. Caldrin arrived in full ceremonial armor, a small sword at his side.
"You requested a duel?" he asked, tone incredulous.
I tilted my head. "A duel of character, dear Father. You’ve questioned Hollow’s integrity. I question yours. Shall we let the truth be seen?"