On this day, within the Requiem Chapel of Laterano, a crowd gathered to lay a man to rest. They were a diverse group, drawn from various backgrounds and origins, all brought together by a single shared loss.
For the resident Sankta, such a gathering was far from extraordinary. Passersby merely offered curious glances, wondering who among the fallen had warranted such a grand and solemn service.
Yet even when intrigued onlookers approached members of the gathering to inquire, no one offered a name. The mourners simply bowed their heads, offered a silent shake, and said no more.
Puzzled, the curious could only shake their heads in return and move along, utterly baffled by the strange air of secrecy surrounding the deceased.
To those gathered inside, the fact that Laterano had permitted this service at all was an act of profound grace. Strictly speaking, the man resting within was still an enemy of the nation, a fugitive who had no right to a formal funeral on holy ground.
"Dead? He really just... died like that?" Fiammetta stood amid the crowd, still struggling to process the reality of his passing. Of all the people she knew, he had always been the slickest when it meandered into a matter of survival.
"Perhaps he never intended to flee in the first place," Mostima replied, her expression grave as she stared toward the front. "Given his Arts, escaping would have been trivial. He could have easily preserved his own life if that was what he truly wanted."
Beside them, Lemuen remained completely silent. She gazed toward the altar as memories of their shared past drifted through her mind. The old grievances, bitter and heavy, had finally dissolved in the face of death, leaving only the fading recollections of those left behind.
The lighthearted smiles that usually graced the three women's faces were absent today. Instead, they watched the sanctuary with quiet sorrow, mourning the man named Andoain.
None of them had ever truly forgiven him for what he had done, nor did they ever plan to. Yet that didn't stop them from attending his final farewell.
Regardless of his dark turns, he had once been their closest friend and comrade-in-arms. The weight of his past actions had not vanished, but in this quiet sanctuary, much of the bitterness had faded into grief.
He had died without a single relative to his name. Even if they couldn't bring themselves to forgive his past, they certainly weren't about to desecrate his final resting place. The man had already been reduced to cold ashes—desecrating his memory now would bring no comfort to anyone.
At the front of the sanctuary, presiding over the service, was the current leader of Laterano—Pope Yvangelista XI.V. The old man held himself with quiet, dignified solemnity as he guided the fallen Sankta through his final rites.
"It seems I'm not too late," a voice murmured nearby.
Two figures—one tall, one small—approached the group. Jeanne and Fafnir had arrived in the city just as news reached them of the ongoing service. Each held a fresh bouquet of white irises bought from a roadside vendor, having managed to slip inside before the rites drew to a close.
"Not at all. It only just began," Mostima offered with a gentle, polite greeting. She glanced down at the young child resting in Jeanne's arms with a subtle touch of curiosity, though she refrained from asking questions and quietly turned her attention back to the altar.
"If that fool knew the Saintess herself came to pay her respects, he'd probably be beside himself with joy. Though he'd likely be even happier if you were the one up there presiding over the altar," Fiammetta remarked quietly to Jeanne.
She hadn't expected such grand figures to grace the service of a marked fugitive. Yet her voice wavered slightly as she spoke, strained under the weight of suppressed emotions, as if she had spent the morning trying to hold back tears.
Soon, the crowd began to stir. One by one, the mourners stepped forward to lay their floral offerings before the departed Sankta, paying their silent respects before quietly taking their leave.
There were no long speeches or extravagant ceremonies. It was a simple farewell to a man whose memory would now survive only in the hearts of those who knew him.
When Jeanne stepped forward to present her bouquet, Pope Yvangelista caught sight of her and paused, visibly startled. He had indeed dispatched a formal invitation to summon her for urgent counsel, but he had never anticipated her arriving with such extraordinary speed.
The Pope flicked a subtle glance toward the side chamber, quietly signaling for her to meet him in the back once the service concluded. Jeanne offered a faint, understanding nod before turning to slip back into the aisle.
Outside the chapel doors, Lemuen, Mostima, and Fiammetta stood near a young Liberi whose face looked vaguely familiar, though Jeanne couldn't quite place her identity at first glance.
"The Pathfinder... he could have made it out," the young Liberi sobbed quietly, wiping at her tear-streaked face as she spoke to Fiammetta. "He could have escaped the swarm easily. But... he refused to leave. He said he wouldn't turn back until every last villager was safe..."
Jeanne watched her carefully, the pieces falling into place—this girl was one of the followers who had chosen to walk alongside Andoain in his movement.
"Why... why would he do something so foolish?" the Liberi wept, her voice trembling. "He had every chance to flee the coast! But he kept going back into those falling coastal villages, checking over and over to make sure no one was left behind... If he hadn't gone back..."
Fiammetta pulled the young girl into a firm, comforting embrace, trying to soothe the overwhelming grief wracking her frame. The sharp, defiant edge the girl had once directed toward Laterano was gone, replaced by an abyss of heartbreak.
Hearing how Andoain had repeatedly ventured back into the swarming coastal ruins to pull helpless villagers from the brink, Fiammetta understood all too well. He had traded his own chance at survival to pull just a few more souls out of the rising tide.
"Perhaps he was still chasing a memory," Jeanne said quietly, stepping closer as she voiced her thoughts. "He was never able to walk away from his past. When this disaster struck the shores, it dragged him right back to the tragedy that shaped him."
Jeanne had seen the rawest side of Andoain—a soul forever trapped in the ruins of his youth, searching for a salvation that never came.
Perhaps now, at long last, he could rest in peace. He had been unable to bring a savior to Rocamarea all those years ago, but through his own blood and sacrifice, he had forged a way out for countless other Rocamarea along the coast. Jeanne believed that, in the end, he might have finally found his peace.
Noticing Jeanne's presence, the young Liberi pulled back from Fiammetta's embrace and offered a timid, respectful greeting to the woman her leader had held in such high regard.
"May I ask what the situation in Iberia looks like right now?" Jeanne asked gently. "I haven't received detailed reports from the coast."
"It is terrible..." The Liberi wiped at her eyes, her voice shaking as she recounted the horrors unfolding along the southern shore. "The tide rose before anyone could react. Whole coastal regions were swallowed up by the water in an instant. If the Inquisition hadn't responded with immediate, brutal efficiency, even our efforts wouldn't have been enough to pull the villagers out..."
She recalled the terrifying sight of the shallow waters teeming with countless shapes. Though those bizarre monstrosities had temporarily lapsed into a quiet lull, everyone who had witnessed them knew the creatures were simply gathering strength for the next surge.
Jeanne's heart sank at the description. If a situation this desperate was considered the "lucky" outcome of a swift response, then what would an actual breaking point look like? What kind of nightmare was waiting to crawl out of the deep?
A heavy silence settled over Jeanne as grim visions of an uncertain future crossed her mind.
Shaking off the dark thoughts for the moment, Jeanne bade farewell to the group and led Fafnir toward the back of the chapel, heading for the private quarters to await the Pope.
Yet before she could reach the inner study, she encountered an elderly gentleman standing near the hallway.
He was dressed in impeccably tailored, refined attire, holding himself with the quiet dignity of a seasoned lord. As Jeanne approached, the old man offered a courteous nod and a polite greeting.
"You must be the legendary Holy Maiden I have heard so much about," the old gentleman said, his tone refined and steady. "It is an honor to finally meet you. Allow me to introduce myself—I am Saint Carmen of the Iberian Inquisition."