Chapter 38: a child's pray

The boy never knew what he did wrong.

He never did.

The blows always came like thunder without the storm—loud, unexpected, and aching after they passed. His father's voice was a violent haze, a mouthful of ash and spit that never made any sense, just noise clawing at the inside of the boy's skull. The house was small. Too small. As if it had been built not for people, but for something smaller—things meant to crawl, not stand. The ceiling pressed downward like it wanted him to fold.

He didn't cry. Not because it didn't hurt. But because pain had long since been filed away into a drawer labeled "normal." He sat still afterward, not out of peace, but because he had learned that movement invited attention. Attention was a hand, and hands were danger.

His ribs itched. Not from injury, but from the feeling that he had grown too big for this place. Not in size, but in self. And that growth was being crushed into corners, flattened like paper until he forgot what shape he was supposed to be.

Outside, the cold met him like an old friend. It didn't touch him with cruelty. Just indifference. And indifference was, in many ways, kinder than affection born from rage.

He found his usual spot in the backstreet, behind a crooked bakery that always smelled like stale flour and damp wood. It was quiet here. The kind of quiet that wasn't empty, but full of nothing. He sat down against the brick wall, knees pulled to his chest, chin resting on them like a broken statue might rest upon forgotten foundations.

Thoughts came, not in words, but in shapes.

A spiral. A tightening circle. A loop that always brought him back to the question that gnawed his insides hollow.

Why?

Why was he hated?

Why did his father's eyes look at him like he was a problem never meant to be solved?

Why did the walls of that tiny house feel like they were trying to erase him?

He imagined peeling his skin off and climbing out of it. Maybe there was another version of him beneath it all, one that deserved something better than punishment without cause. One that wouldn't flinch every time a floorboard creaked behind him.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a smooth stone—flat, pale, with a crack running through its middle like a frozen smile. He rubbed it between his fingers. He didn't know where it came from. He didn't even remember picking it up. But it helped. Just a little. It reminded him that something, anything, could feel still.

People talked about fear like it was sharp, like it was a knife or a scream.

But to him, fear was soft.

It was a pillow held just a second too long.

It was a smile that never quite reached the eyes.

It was the way the door always closed louder than it opened.

The boy sat there, hands cold, thoughts spiraling in slow circles, and wondered if anyone in the world could see him.

The boy didn't hear the footsteps. They were too soft—more whisper than sound. But when he felt a presence lower beside him, he tensed. Not from fear. No… fear was baked into him like salt in bread. This was something else. Unfamiliarity.

Cael didn't speak right away. He simply sat, arms resting on his knees, the same way the boy sat. He didn't look at the boy, didn't lean in, didn't make himself bigger. He just breathed slow, like he was trying not to disturb the air.

The boy peeked at him, just slightly. A man with tired eyes, but not the kind of tired that came from anger or shouting. This was a quiet tired. A thoughtful kind.

"You look like someone who's carrying a lot," Cael finally said, voice even. "Heavy things don't always look like luggage."

The boy didn't answer. Not out of stubbornness, but because words didn't feel safe yet. Silence, at least, was predictable.

Cael nodded to himself. "That's fine. Talking's optional. I'm just here… to sit. If that's okay."

A pause. The boy gave the smallest shrug. Cael took that as permission.

They sat like that for a long time. No talking. Just the occasional sound of a city pretending not to see the cracks in itself.

Cael reached into the satchel at his side and pulled out a small, wrapped package. It smelled faintly of bread and smoked salt. He unwrapped it halfway and placed it gently between them.

"I don't know if you're hungry. But if you are, this is for you."

Still, the boy didn't speak. But he looked at the food. And when Cael turned away politely, pretending to be focused on a passing bird, the boy's hand slowly reached out and took it.

He ate in silence. Cael didn't say a word. When the boy finished, he tucked the wrapper under his leg like he was ashamed of needing it.

Cael spoke again, this time softer. "You don't deserve to be hurt. Whatever someone made you think… whatever you've been through… That isn't your fault. And it isn't right."

The boy's throat moved like he wanted to swallow, but there was nothing to swallow.

Cael continued, careful, as if his words might shatter if said too fast. "Sometimes… adults forget that kids aren't problems to solve. They forget kids are people. And people need space. Kindness. A reason to breathe easy."

A long silence. The boy's lip trembled for just a moment. His voice cracked out like a bird's wing hitting a window.

"I didn't do anything…"

"I know," Cael replied, immediate and certain. "You don't have to prove anything. I believe you."

The boy looked at him then. Really looked. Searching for the catch, the twist, the joke.

But Cael's eyes were steady. No lies there. Just a calm resolve. Like he had seen monsters worse than this boy's father, and still came back wanting to protect something.

"Who are you?" the boy finally asked, voice small.

Cael gave him a sad smile. "Someone who used to ask the same question you're asking now. Someone who knows what it's like to feel… forgotten."

The boy said nothing. But he leaned slightly closer, just enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

And Cael didn't move away.

The sun hadn't quite claimed the sky yet. It spilled in through thin clouds like golden threads being sewn into the day. The streets of Konue were quieter in the early hours, softened by sleep and spared the weight of shouting and commerce. It was a good kind of quiet. One that didn't feel empty.

Cael walked beside the boy, not holding his hand, not rushing him—just close enough to be known. The boy had washed his face in a nearby fountain, still damp around the edges. He looked less like a ghost now, more like a person trying to re-enter their body.

The great spire of the Grand Church reached skyward like an offering. Its bells didn't ring yet. Instead, a hum of voices leaked from inside—soft, steady prayers to Coe. They echoed in that grand chamber like ripples on a still pond.

The boy hesitated at the base of the steps.

Cael crouched beside him. "You don't have to go in. But it's warm, and the people are kind this time of day. And… sometimes, when people pray, they're just saying the words they don't know how to speak anywhere else."

The boy looked up at the doors, then at the rows of people inside through the slightly open entrance. No one was crying. No one was yelling. They just… whispered and bowed their heads.

Cael stood and waited. Eventually, the boy stepped forward.

They sat at the back pew. The scent of old incense lingered in the air—soft spices and woodsmoke. Candles flickered like steady hearts, and the stained-glass windows poured gentle color onto stone floors. It didn't matter what they wore. No one stared. No one asked questions.

Cael rested his hands on his knees and leaned close to whisper, "Where I come from, people… seek gods for all kinds of reasons."

The boy turned a little to listen.

"Some want answers. Some want forgiveness. Some want meaning. And some—just want to feel less alone."

He paused for a moment, letting the stillness around them breathe.

"I used to think gods were just stories people told to survive the dark. But sometimes, a story that saves you isn't any less real than the world outside. And sometimes, faith isn't about believing in something big and perfect—sometimes it's just believing that… someone, somewhere, cares that you made it another day."

The boy said nothing. But he leaned back against the pew, shoulders sinking as if the weight was a little lighter.

A choir began a low, gentle chant. Not dramatic. Not grand. Just soft and steady like a lullaby meant for the broken.

Cael glanced down at the boy. "You're allowed to heal, you know. No one gets to take that away from you. Not even the ones who hurt you."

The boy didn't cry.

But his hand found Cael's sleeve. Just a little tug.

And in the golden light of a gentle morning, they sat together. Not as a hero and a stranger.

The morning prayer concluded with a soft chime of bells. Most of the congregation filtered out slowly, leaving only a few lingering souls who preferred quiet contemplation. Cael remained seated beside the boy, who now leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, staring ahead blankly—thinking, but not sure how to name the thoughts.

Cael stood and motioned for the boy to follow. "Come on. There's something I can try."

They walked deeper into the Grand Church, through the amber-stained halls and down toward a side wing where old stone met even older wood. Candles flickered along the narrow corridor, and somewhere above them, a raven cawed—not entirely where a raven should be.

The priests in this wing weren't the usual soft-spoken hymn-weavers. These were the old guardians of the sanctuary, robed in patchworked fabric, bearing symbols not just of Coe's duality, but of decision and consequence.

Cael knew many of them.

Brother Fenril was hunched over a basin of glowing water, whispering something in a language not even he remembered learning. His beard was a cascade of white tangled into charms, and one of his eyes had been replaced with a smooth mirror shard that shimmered when it caught the light.

Cael knocked gently on the old wood of the doorframe. "Brother Fenril."

The priest didn't look up, but his eyes flashed. "Ah. The paranoid one."

"I like to think of it as 'attentively cautious,'" Cael said, then gestured to the boy behind him. "I need your help. The boy's father is… hurting him."

Fenril finally turned. His face was lined like riverbeds and cliffs, but his expression softened when his mirrored eye met the boy's gaze. "Hurt is a broad thing. Tell me the kind."

"Bruises. Hiding in alleyways. Fear when someone breathes too loud," Cael replied calmly, but there was a grit to his voice.

Fenril huffed through his nose, standing with the slow grace of an old wolf. "Why must they always beat the smallest things? Alright. We'll handle this."

"What do you mean by handle?" Cael asked warily.

Fenril cracked his knuckles. "Legally, of course. With the authority of the church. And also a little chaos."

"…Explain."

Fenril strode down the hall, calling over his shoulder. "We have a program. Sanctuary Tribunal. We offer safe haven, then deal with the abuser through trial—if the charges are true. If they resist…"

He stopped in front of an ornate cabinet and opened it to reveal a wide variety of very sharp, very sacred weapons. "We bless the consequences."

Cael blinked. "That's not really—"

"Perfectly ethical under Coe's dual law," Fenril replied cheerily. "Action and reflection. Harm and protection. Even the god of identity knows when a mask must be broken."

The boy clutched Cael's coat tightly.

Cael leaned down and whispered, "They're a bit… intense. But they'll protect you. And no one—no one—will let your pain go unanswered."

Fenril turned back, already barking orders at two younger clerics—one sprinted to notify the Tribunal, the other to prepare a temporary room for the boy. Then he turned and pointed at Cael.

"You, paranoid one. You're his witness. You'll testify if it comes to trial?"

Cael nodded. "Absolutely."

"Good. And you…" He knelt before the boy. "Do you want to stay here? Do you want to be safe?"

The boy's voice was barely a breath. "Yes."

And just like that, a sacred ward was drawn on the boy's hand with holy ash. A protective symbol. If the father tried to come near him again, it would burn with light so bright it could blind.

The church didn't always act loudly. But when it did, it did so with old rules, strange rituals, and a surprisingly effective bureaucracy of divine justice.

As the boy was led away toward the sanctuary rooms, Cael let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

Fenril clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You did good, boy. Now go eat something. You look like a sleep-deprived squirrel."

The room they gave the boy was small, but it was warm. The stone walls glowed gold with morning light filtering through a circular stained glass that cast fractured colors across the floor. There was a cot, a table with a single candle, and a small basin of fresh water. Nothing more. Nothing less. But it was his. And for the first time, it was quiet.

He sat cross-legged on the cot, unsure what to do. He'd never prayed before—not really. Not like this. Not without someone towering over him, telling him what was right and wrong. He didn't know the chants, or how to bow, or what words would be good enough for a god.

So he closed his eyes.

And with the stillness of a boy who had learned to survive by hiding his heart, he whispered.

It wasn't eloquent. It wasn't grand. It didn't have sacred verses or borrowed wisdom. But it was real.

"I don't know what you are… or if you're anything like the ones I heard in stories. But I want to be better than him. I want to live like I'm not scared all the time. I want to be free."

There was no blinding light. No voice from the heavens. Just warmth. Like the last breath of sunlight before night. A feeling that didn't demand anything, but remained anyway.

And in that small moment, the boy gave his first offering to Coe—truth, from a soul that had only just begun to believe it had value.

Elsewhere, in a room crowded with judgment and parchment, the father shouted. He argued. Raged. Demanded his rights as a parent, screamed about lies, about property, about blood.

But the Tribunal of Coe does not judge by blood.

It judges by reflection. By the truth that echoes in silence.

Cael watched all this from the back corner of the hall, arms crossed tightly, his shoulders heavier than usual.

He didn't say much when the ruling passed. He didn't even smile.

He just stared down at his own reflection in the polished tile, seeing two sets of eyes. His own. And the memory of another.

The old priest who had stood at the gate and whispered the impossible. The man whose name had been erased not just from records—but from memory.

Even now, Cael couldn't recall his face. Couldn't remember what he sounded like. Only fragments. Only echoes.

But this—this act of protection, this justice for the voiceless—this was what he meant.

Cael didn't build temples. He didn't sing hymns or memorize scripture. But in his own strange, anxious, overthinking way—he remembered a man that no one could remember.

He did not want your growth to be bound to the death of a person... nor the memory of them.

Cael understood, now.

That was why he'd done it.

Not just to protect the boy.

But to carry forward something that had no name anymore.

An erased man's legacy.

Spoken not in words—

But in action.