The church hall still carried the remnants of the chant—soft echoes caught in the stone ribs overhead, as though the prayers refused to settle.
Lantern-light trembled along the walls, wavering with every draft that crept through the old arches.
Father Titus stood near the obsidian wall, his hands folded behind his back. Sister Margaret and Sister Anne faced him a few paces away—Margaret wringing the ends of her sleeves, Anne holding the infant close beneath drifting candlelight.
Margaret broke first.
She stepped forward, skirts brushing the woven mats scattered across the floor. "Father Titus… please," she said, voice tight with worry. "I understand halflings are not the same, but you must understand—"
She glanced toward the side corridors, as though the congregation might spill out at any moment. "We are an isolated church. The congre— the people will not accept this. They will not understand."
She pressed a hand to her chest, breath trembling. 'Heavens spare us,' she thought, even as she tried to steady herself. "If word spreads that we harbour such a child—"
Anne moved before she could continue. She stepped past Margaret, careful but firm, the child settled against her shoulder. His blanket rustled softly as she adjusted her hold.
"It has never been our purpose to appease the people," she said, her voice calm but charged with emotion.
She lifted the infant slightly, letting Father Titus see his small, curious face. "We serve and preach the Word. And the Word dictates that any life able to set foot upon holy ground is blessed. This child is one such life. Even the Holy See does not turn halflings away."
Margaret's breath faltered; her eyes glossed. "Sister Anne…" She wasn't angry anymore. Just afraid.
But Father Titus barely seemed to hear either woman.
His attention rested entirely on the infant. The little boy had stopped crying—no ragged breaths, no frightened whimpers. Instead, he stared around at the flickering lanterns with a puzzled curiosity, eyes wide and red as garnets.
When Titus tilted his head to the left… then to the right…
The child mimicked him.
Once.
Then again.
A soft, bubbling sound rolled from the infant's throat—something between a coo and a chortle.
"Mm'ghh—ahh~"
Both nuns went silent at once. Even Margaret forgot her worries, her hands falling still at her sides.
Father Titus finally straightened. His voice was gentle, though it carried a certain gravity beneath it. "This child bears no sin," he said. "Unlike you… and unlike myself." His gaze moved briefly to the obsidian wall, where faint letters faded beneath the surface. "To abandon him would be heresy."
Margaret lowered her head at once. Her lips parted, but no words came.
Titus's tone softened. "Sister Margaret."
She flinched, but he continued kindly, "I understand your concerns. There is no fault in fearing the consequences of our choices. Yet we must always strive, as best we can, to abide by the Grace afforded to us."
A quiet breath left her. "…I understand, Father." Her voice was small. Guilty. Human.
"Wonderful," he replied, offering a faint smile. "Please prepare a warm bath for the child. I would speak with Sister Anne for a moment."
Margaret gave a hurried nod—something close to a bow. "As you say, Father." She backed away a step, then another, glancing once more at the baby before turning.
As she retreated toward one of the side rooms, she muttered under her breath, "Heavens help us…" Her footsteps faded across the stone floor until the door closed behind her.
Only Anne remained.
Father Titus exhaled a quiet, thoughtful breath. "May I?" he asked, extending his arms.
Anne nodded once. She shifted her hold, careful not to disturb the blanket, and passed the infant into his waiting hands.
Titus received the child with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his earlier authority—but it suited him in this moment. His fingers curled beneath the small body, supporting the head with a practiced touch.
"What a healthy and handsome boy," he murmured, the faintest amusement warming his words. "And quite the fierce gaze."
He chuckled softly and pressed a finger to the child's round cheek, brushing in a small circle. The baby's mouth opened in a delighted giggle—"kuhh-hee~"—and his little hand shot forward, clutching one of the rings on Titus's pinky.
"Well now," Titus mused. "A firm grip already."
Anne watched him in silence, hands folded neatly at her front. Her posture held its usual discipline, but her eyes carried something heavier—worry, perhaps. Or responsibility settling onto her shoulders.
Titus glanced up at her. "It has only been your fourth week with us, Sister Anne, and you are already proving quite different from what we expected."
Her expression tightened. "May I ask what was expected, Father?"
He smiled—kind, but edged with honesty. "Most of our brothers and sisters from larger cities, particularly your region, tend to hold… uncharitable views toward halflings."
Anne's gaze lowered. "I do not share the beliefs of my region," she said quietly. "Nor those of my family."
Titus breathed a soft laugh. "I imagine your father would not approve. But that is not my place to meddle."
He adjusted the child, lightly bouncing him as the infant cooed in contentment. "What I wished to say is this: no matter how we may feel, this child will not be fully accepted by the people here. You brought him through our doors. Thus, his care shall fall to you."
Anne nodded at once. "I understand."
"If you prefer relief," Titus added, "I may speak with Father Daemon a few villages over. His congregation is far more open to—"
"I will," Anne said, cutting in gently but firmly.
A faint gleam of approval touched his eyes. "Very well."
He returned the infant to her arms. She received the boy with quiet care, tucking the blanket around his small shoulders. As she stepped back, she offered a respectful bow. "Thank you, Father. Rest well."
"And you as well, Sister Anne." Titus turned toward the obsidian wall again, hands clasped behind his back. The red script shimmered faintly beneath the polished surface. His voice drifted low, almost to himself.
"What a strange night."
Anne's steps receded toward the adjoining hallway, the child's soft murmurs following her, echoing gently through the ancient stone.
And the hall grew quiet once more.