That evening, I found myself sitting with Zira as the sun drowned behind the western horizon. The question slipped out before I could stop myself.
"What was that… call and response the Commander and his men did last night?"
"Oh, the Church's creed?" Zira tilted her head. "I could tell you what I know. But it may be better to hear it from one of them."
I frowned. None of those armored zealots looked like they had much patience for "girl talk"—especially anything that might border on heresy.
"Oh, I don't mean the Commander." Zira smiled slyly. "I mean the sister. Curious you didn't notice her—Hilfe?"
My eyebrows nearly leapt off my face. Who? How had I missed her?
A gentle voice answered before I could think further. "Ah, Madam Zira, what a delight to meet once again. Good evening."
We turned. A woman in a dark green habit with white trim approached, gold embroidery glittering along the edges like caged sunlight. Her steps were soft, deliberate.
"Likewise, Sister Hilfe," Zira replied warmly. "I was just speaking with my companion here. We were hoping you might help us understand the Church's creed."
"Good evening, miss." Sister Hilfe turned her calm eyes on me, eyes so warm they made me strangely uneasy.
"Good… evening," I said, fumbling with an awkward smile.
Her expression softened further. "And you are…?"
"Luna," I supplied quickly. "I… heard the Commander and his men last night. That call and response. Zira said it came from the Church's creed. I—was curious." My gaze slid toward the dying light. "I hope it's not heretical to ask."
"Not at all." Sister Hilfe sat gracefully beside Zira.
I noticed then the strange emblem on her robes: a golden, gilded cage embroidered into the fabric. Not a cross. Not any holy symbol I recognized. My questions only grew.
Clearing her throat, Sister Hilfe began, her voice low, even, and reverent.
The Creed of the Church of Light
"I believe in the strength of man's faith.
Not in a distant god, but in our own hands and hearts.
I believe in the effect of humanity's will—
in the heart, the stance, the resolve to stand against the tide
of light and darkness alike.
I believe in the struggle that is ours alone.
For no heaven will save us, and no hell will spare us.
The beyond may devour—yet still, we endure.
Thanks be to Mother Tien,
who gave her flesh and blood for our first Saint—
a testament to our defiance.
I believe in the light we bear:
not of purity, but of corruption, bent to our will.
Not a gift, but a weapon stolen from the dark.
I am thankful for life, and I will fight to keep it.
For we know its value, and we know our enemy seeks to erase it.
I believe in the fruit of struggle and of hope.
May my hands be the basket that gathers the harvest.
Or, if I fall, may humanity still partake of it.
This is our prayer:
not for salvation, but for victory.
Not for ourselves, but for those who come after.
We fight for a future we may never see,
a harvest we may never gather—
so that others may live."
"May it be so."
The words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and electric. I wanted to ask her a hundred questions, but none would come.
"Thank you," was all I managed.
But my mind burned with doubts. What happened to the Church? To the world? And who—by all the gods—is Mother Tien?
Hilfe's attendant, who had been standing at a respectful distance, stepped forward and handed her a thick brown book edged in gold. He bowed to Zira, but never spared me a glance before retreating with her into the gathering dark.
"Mother Tien?" I whispered to Zira.
Zira chuckled softly. "Said to be the mother of the first Saint."
"Saint?" I raised a brow.
"Oh, you don't know?" Her smile turned sly. "Saints are more than leaders of Paladins. They are flawless. Beautiful—so beautiful it unsettles. And their strength more than justifies their station. Like—" She stopped suddenly, her eyes darting to the horizon. "Ah. But it seems our time is up."
I looked up. The night had already fallen. And though dinner sat before me, I could hardly eat. My mind was too restless, my thoughts turning over and over in the dark.