Chapter 20 — The Enemy of Thorns
How do you master a spell in just one day?
For most people, the very idea would sound absurd — a fantasy within a fantasy.
But for Charles, it wasn't impossible.
He had something no one else did.
The time gap between worlds.
"If there really are gods up there," he murmured half-jokingly, "please let me learn this damned spell fast."
Sitting at his desk, he worked with feverish concentration. His quill, deliberately dry of ink, danced silently over blank sheets of paper — sketching invisible lines, tracing invisible symbols.
He was practicing.
Using the fragmented memories left behind by his body's previous owner, he tried to reproduce the runes — again and again — relying only on what he could recall and what he felt to be right.
He dared not leave any visible traces; the Church's eyes were everywhere. And though he was merely miming the strokes, without ink or focus the results were far from ideal. Worse still, his "reference" was a half-faded memory of a messy notebook.
But thankfully, he had an edge — the Eye of Truth.
[You attempt to inscribe a forbidden sigil, but your strokes are imprecise — failure.]
[You attempt to inscribe a forbidden sigil, but your strokes are imprecise — failure. Proficiency +0.2%]
[You attempt to inscribe a forbidden sigil. Your accuracy improves slightly. You begin to grasp a subtle resonance…]
The floating text flickered across his vision again and again — small signs of progress that kept him going when exhaustion set in.
The Eye of True Sight wasn't a weapon, nor even a proper spell; it was a lens, one that revealed knowledge, not power.
And now, it was showing him something new: himself.
Every correct movement, every minor adjustment, brought with it a strange, fleeting sensation — as if something deep inside him pulsed in recognition.
It was subtle, easy to overlook. But the Eye ensured he didn't.
Every flicker, every whisper of progress, it recorded.
"There's nothing harder in the world," he thought wryly, "than understanding yourself."
When the sun finally rose, Charles set down the quill with a weary sigh.
He looked out the window.
The mist of dawn had lifted; sunlight spilled through the curtains, glinting off the rooftops of Pita City. Birds were singing. The world was painfully, mockingly alive.
He tucked away the papers and quill, hiding them carefully. Then he stepped out into the hallway.
The house was quiet.
The door to Annie's room — the sickly, timid girl he was responsible for — remained firmly shut. She rarely left it unless coaxed.
Downstairs, the new cook bustled about the kitchen, humming as she worked.
Maggie, a stout middle-aged woman with kind eyes and rough hands, was a temporary hire — the best he could afford from a local housekeeping agency.
"Breakfast will be ready soon, Mister Cranston," she said cheerfully as he passed. "Strawberry pie, honey-glazed bacon, warm bread, and fresh milk!"
"Just make sure Annie eats," Charles said, pausing at the kitchen door. "I'll be out for a while."
"Shall I save you a plate?"
"No need."
He grabbed his coat from the rack and stepped out into the crisp morning air.
Maggie was a blessing, but also a drain. Three gold crowns a month — affordable for a noble, ruinous for someone barely scraping by.
If he didn't find new income soon, his pockets would run dry before the Church reached its verdict.
That was why he was heading out.
---
After a half-hour's walk through the cobbled streets of Pita, Charles reached Saint Sai Cathedral — an imposing marble structure that dominated the skyline of the city's holy district.
It was named after a long-dead priest, Saint Sai, who'd supposedly saved the city from a plague centuries ago. The kind of myth the Church loved to carve into stone and call history.
Charles had already arranged a meeting the previous day. After a brief word with one of the attendants, he was guided to a quiet prayer hall inside.
There, sitting alone on a pew in a shadowed corner, reading from a worn leather book, was Elliot — the man from the Church who had escorted him before.
The faint echo of Charles's footsteps was enough for Elliot to turn his head. His instincts were sharp as ever.
"I hear you were looking for me," he said calmly.
Charles nodded. "I was. I plan to sell that pile of dragon bones — figured you might know someone who'd be interested."
Elliot closed his book, regarding him for a long moment. "You seem… remarkably unconcerned." His tone hovered somewhere between bemusement and reproach. "Most men under investigation by the Church can't even sleep, let alone make business deals."
Charles shrugged. "Worrying about what I can't change won't help me. Might as well stay productive."
Elliot studied him, expression unreadable. Then he said, "I don't need your bones — but I can introduce you to someone who does. However…"
He paused. His blue eyes sharpened, voice lowering.
"Even if you hadn't come looking for me, I would've come to find you."
Charles frowned. "Why's that?"
Elliot's answer dropped like a stone into still water.
"Your verdict," he said quietly. "It's been delivered."
Charles froze.
His breath hitched. For the first time in days, his pulse quickened.
Though Charles had been clinging to hope — convincing himself the Church wouldn't really execute him — his heart still hammered as the moment of truth arrived.
He couldn't help blurting, "So… no surprises, right?"
Elliot gave a wry smile. "That depends on what you consider a surprise."
Charles frowned. "You mean like… hanging, beheading, or maybe being burned alive?"
The priest's expression didn't change. "You'd best go and see for yourself, instead of asking me."
"…Right."
Charles drew in a deep breath, turned as if to leave — then hesitated and came back, scratching his head under Elliot's puzzled gaze.
"Earlier," he asked, "you mentioned someone who might be interested in the dragon bones. Who exactly is that?"
Elliot blinked. "You're still thinking about selling bones at a time like this?"
Charles shrugged sheepishly. "I'm nervous. Trying to distract myself."
---
He didn't get an answer.
Instead, a silent acolyte led him through the echoing corridors of the cathedral, past pillars etched with angels and saints, until they stopped before a marble statue of the Holy Light.
Kneeling before it was the same middle-aged priest who had tested him days earlier.
Unlike ordinary worshippers, the man's prayer was eerie in its stillness — his eyes closed, lips unmoving, hands clasped so tightly they trembled. For a moment, Charles wondered if he'd fallen asleep.
He waited quietly, not daring to interrupt.
After a long while, the priest stirred — opening his eyes and turning toward Charles with a kindly smile that was almost too kind.
"Busy lately?" he asked in a warm, casual tone, as though speaking to an old friend.
Charles felt momentarily disarmed by the friendliness, but he quickly remembered his situation — suspect of heresy, not parishioner. "Just thinking," he said carefully, "about whether stories can really be changed."
The priest tilted his head. "Stories? Are you a writer, then?"
Charles chuckled weakly. "Something like that. I… get a bit too caught up in books sometimes. A hobby."
"I see."
The priest nodded, motioning for him to sit beside him on a nearby bench. His expression turned thoughtful.
"We used a tracking spell on you," he said suddenly.
Charles stiffened. "And?"
Elliot — who had followed them in and now leaned against a pillar — said nothing.
The priest continued, smiling faintly. "We found that, aside from hiring a cook, you've spent nearly all your time shut inside your home. At first, I found that suspicious… but now I understand. You were writing."
He gave a soft laugh, his eyes gentle. "A harmless pastime — even admirable."
"Thank you," Charles said, forcing a polite nod. He still couldn't relax. The man radiated warmth, but that only made him more dangerous.
Sensing the tension, the priest sighed lightly and straightened his posture. The smile remained, but his gaze sharpened.
"All right," he said. "Let's not waste time with pleasantries. You didn't come here for praise, and I suspect you already know why I summoned you."
Charles swallowed. "…My verdict."
"Indeed."
The priest's tone was calm — too calm.
"You are guilty," he said without hesitation. "Possessing and attempting to study black magic grimoires is no trivial offense."
The words hit hard, but the man's serene demeanor made it impossible to tell whether Charles should be afraid or relieved.
Then the priest smiled again, that same unreadable, kindly smile.
"However," he continued, "given your… unique circumstances, the Church has chosen leniency. You will be given a chance to redeem yourself."
Charles blinked. "A chance? What kind of chance?"
The priest didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his robe and handed Charles a small, leather-bound book.
The cover was old and scarred, the title etched in deep, curling script.
Charles glanced down — four words, burned into the surface like a brand:
The Enemy of Thorns.
He looked up in confusion, but the priest merely folded his hands, that knowing smile still fixed in place.
---