Chapter 14 — The Trial of Faith
The Church came for him faster than Charles had ever imagined.
At dawn, when the first pale light bled into his bedroom, he stirred awake — only to see a man sitting at his desk, calmly twirling a thin, white-and-red rib bone between his gloved fingers.
The stranger was young, perhaps in his mid-twenties, strikingly handsome with neatly combed golden hair. The crisp white of his tailcoat gleamed faintly in the morning light, and the silver thorned cross pinned to his chest left no doubt about who he was.
A man of the Holy Church.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, his blue eyes lifting from the bone to meet Charles's half-lidded, sleepless stare.
Charles groaned, rubbing at the bloodshot corners of his eyes. "Can I call the police first?"
The man raised a brow, mildly amused. "If they'd dare take your side."
He set the dragon bone gently onto the table, then stood and approached the bed. His voice was courteous, but his tone carried quiet authority.
"I've been sent to escort you to St. Sai Cathedral. Out of respect for your noble status, I won't use force — unless you make me."
Charles stared at him for a moment, then nodded wordlessly.
There wasn't any point in resisting now.
He got up, threw on a wrinkled shirt, and gestured lazily toward the door. "Well, the sooner we start, the sooner it's over."
That earned a faint smile from the man. "Efficient. I like that."
"Charles Cranston," he replied evenly. "You probably already know."
The man chuckled softly as they left the room. "Elliot. That's my name. And I'll admit — you're a peculiar one. Most of those we summon for black-magic inquiry either run, beg, or resist. You… act like it's a business meeting."
"I'm innocent," Charles said flatly. "Framed."
Elliot gave no visible reaction, only murmured, "For your sake, I hope that's true."
They passed through the sitting room, where little Annie sat clutching her ragged teddy bear. Elliot paused, watching her for a long moment before sighing.
"That girl," he said quietly, "is very ill."
Charles frowned. "Ill? What kind of illness?"
"That's for the physicians to explain," Elliot replied, gaze distant. "But I can already see… she'll soon be resting in the arms of the Lord."
Charles fell silent.
In his previous world, he'd have scoffed at such divine fatalism. But here — in a world where gods, sorcery, and curses truly existed — the words hit differently.
So she's dying.
A wave of sadness flickered through him, then quickly burned away. If he couldn't survive this trial himself, he'd join her soon enough — though not in the Lord's embrace, most likely.
More like hellfire.
So instead of pitying her, he decided he'd better pity himself.
Neither man spoke again after that.
They climbed into a black carriage and rode through the cold morning streets. The city was still half asleep, fog curling between gas lamps, the hooves of the horses striking sharp against cobblestone.
Within ten minutes, they reached their destination — St. Sai Cathedral, the only church in the city of Pita.
It was magnificent: a marble giant with two bell towers rising into the gray sky, its pale façade carved with intricate thorn patterns, and a vast white-stone cross crowning its peak.
The carriage stopped at the edge of the plaza. Charles and Elliot stepped out.
They entered through the rightmost archway, passing rows of columns and a dim, echoing hall, until they stopped before a heavy oak door deep within the cathedral.
Elliot turned to him and said simply, "Good luck."
Then he left.
Charles drew a deep breath — like a man walking to the gallows — and pushed the door open.
Inside, two priests in immaculate white robes awaited him. Their eyes — bright, solemn, and impossibly clear — fixed on him the instant he stepped in.
Their gaze wasn't merely observant. It pierced. It felt as though it stripped away flesh and bone to look straight into his soul.
Charles forced himself to appear calm, but his pulse hammered beneath his ribs.
"Please, sit," said the younger of the two priests, motioning toward a chair across the table.
Charles obeyed, taking his seat opposite them.
"Place your hands upon the crystal sphere."
The tone was polite, but the authority in it brooked no argument.
He hesitated only a fraction of a second before complying.
If it's fate, it's fate, he thought grimly. Hesitation will only make me look guilty.
He reached out — and the moment his fingers brushed the surface of the crystal orb, a searing heat shot through his palms.
He recoiled instinctively.
"You're afraid?" The younger priest's eyes sharpened, his calm voice edged with sudden steel.
"No," Charles said quickly. "It's just… hot."
He wasn't lying. It had felt like touching a brand from a forge — so intense it had startled him into pulling back.
He flexed his scorched fingers, forcing his expression to stay composed.
Inside, though, one thought screamed through his mind like thunder:
They can sense it — the darkness inside me.
The moment Charles's words left his mouth, the two priests exchanged a strange look.
The younger one's lips parted as if to speak, but the elder priest gave a faint shake of his head — a silent command to stay quiet.
So the words were swallowed, and both turned their attention back to Charles.
He, oblivious to their unease, was wholly fixated on the crystal orb before him.
It was mesmerizing. The instant his hands settled upon its surface, a soft milky light began to bloom from its core, swirling outward like mist under the morning sun. The glow grew thicker, rolling and curling like luminous clouds.
Then, before his eyes, threads of that light stretched from the orb itself — creeping up along his arms, wrapping around his shoulders, and soon engulfing his entire body.
He felt… warmth. Gentle. Almost comforting, as though he were basking in sunlight after a long winter.
When the light stabilized, both priests nodded slightly.
"It appears," said the elder in a voice calm and resonant, "that you bear no trace of black magic upon your body."
Charles almost sighed in relief — but the old priest's next words froze him again.
"However, that does not mean you are cleared of suspicion. We still have questions."
Charles steadied his breath, forcing a neutral tone. "Go ahead."
Inside, however, his thoughts churned in confusion.
How… how could they not detect it?
He'd used necromancy — a spell that should've reeked of death and corruption. Yet the orb showed nothing.
Maybe this thing's faulty… or maybe something's shielding me.
"Mr. Cranston," the younger priest began, "we've been informed that you acquired a notebook from a gambling house. Where is it now?"
"It was stolen."
"By whom?"
"A man named Joffrey."
"And when exactly did this happen?"
"Last night. Somewhere on the streets — I don't know the name. Afterward, I was beaten up and somehow ended up back home. I don't remember how."
He spoke steadily, recalling every lesson he knew about bluffing through lie detection tests. He didn't understand the crystal's mechanism, but he suspected intent mattered as much as truth — so he focused on sincerity, keeping his heartbeat slow.
The light surrounding him didn't flicker. The orb remained calm.
A small victory.
So much for divine instruments, he thought with a flicker of smugness —
—and immediately regretted it, as the white aura around him shuddered violently, as if reacting to his arrogance.
Charles's heart jumped into his throat. He forcibly blanked his mind, erasing the rebellious thought. Slowly, the glow steadied again.
The priests had noticed the tremor, but it had been brief enough to dismiss.
"'You suddenly returned home,' you said?" asked the younger priest.
"Yes."
"How, exactly?"
"I don't remember. One moment I was somewhere else, and then —" he snapped his fingers, "— I was home. Like being pulled through a dream."
He wasn't lying. The orb stayed placid.
The priests exchanged another glance.
"Very well," said the elder. "We've confirmed that Mr. Weimar is dead. Witnesses claim you lured him into your residence on Privet Street No. 42 and murdered him. Do you deny this?"
"I didn't kill him," Charles said plainly.
The orb remained still — pure and unshaken.
Truth.
The priests' faces softened; both nodded slightly, even offering faint smiles of acknowledgment.
Charles dared to breathe again.
But then —
"Before the notebook was taken," the younger priest asked quietly, "did you ever read or attempt to study its contents?"
The air shifted.
The crystal gave a low hum — and ripples of light quivered across its surface.
Both priests froze, eyes locking onto Charles.
His pulse spiked. He knew this was the question — the one that could destroy him.
For a brief second, his mind raced through every possible lie, every escape route. But there was none. The orb could sense deceit.
So he did the only thing left — tell the half-truth.
"I, Charles Cranston, swear on my name," he said slowly, meeting their eyes, "that I did read and attempt to learn from it — but I never understood any of it. Not a word. And if that alone is my sin…"
He exhaled softly. "…then I accept whatever punishment follows."
Silence fell over the room.
The crystal's glow pulsed once, twice — then went completely still.
Neither priest spoke. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken meaning.
And as the faint white light continued to halo Charles's hands, he realized that, for now at least…
He had survived the first judgment.
(End of Chapter)