The unconventional power of priests

We spent the next hour practicing the breathing technique, over and over again, until my lungs felt like bellows and my body buzzed faintly with the residue of mana. Alric was surprisingly patient — for a man who barked like a drill sergeant, he didn't rush me or scold when I faltered. He only adjusted my posture, corrected my focus, and occasionally reminded me to "stop holding your damn breath like you're drowning."

It was only after we paused for a short rest — me back on the cushion, Nyx curled against my hip — that another thought tugged at me. One I hadn't considered until now.

Back in my old world, in the books I used to read under the covers as a kid, priests could call down divine fire, heal wounds with a touch, or banish demons with holy words. If Florence had gods and priests and magic…

"Hey, Alric?" I asked, turning toward him. "Do priests here have powers?"

He arched a bushy white brow. "Of course we do. You think we dress like this for fashion?"

I snorted. "I mean, I assumed you were just very committed to the aesthetic."

He ignored me, tapping the side of his cane. "Our powers are different from mages'. Priests don't manipulate mana the same way. Instead, we're granted divine spells — small miracles, borrowed directly from our gods."

"Borrowed?"

He nodded. "Exactly. Through devotion, we're granted limited access to their power. Not like your blessings — those are permanent and potent. Divine spells are more like... temporary loans."

He paused, eyes distant for a moment. "We can only cast them a few times a day, and once spent, they're gone until the next dawn — when we renew our bond through prayer, offering, or meditation."

I leaned forward, intrigued. "And what kind of spells are we talking about?"

"That depends entirely on the god you serve," he said. "A priest of the Goddess of Life may heal wounds, cure disease, or purify food and water. A priest of the God of War might call on a divine shield or a surge of righteous strength. The God of Death's followers… well, their spells are less pleasant."

"Charming," I muttered.

"But we, the priests of Lady Deyinara," he continued, his voice tinged with pride, "are rewarded differently."

He tapped his temple. "She grants us pieces of her arcane knowledge — not spells, per se, but understanding. Insight. Paths of logic. Hidden truths. Each day, we are a little wiser than the day before. That is our divine gift."

"So instead of miracles," I said, "she gives you... study notes."

"Study notes that could unravel the fabric of reality, yes," Alric said dryly. "You'll find that in her service, the most powerful spells are not the loudest."

I let that sit for a moment.

In a way, it made perfect sense. Deyinara wasn't about force. She was about knowledge. About understanding the rules so deeply you could bend them without breaking them.

And now, so was I.

"So what do you use that arcane knowledge for?" I asked.

Alric shrugged. "To conduct more research on spells hoping to expand our knowledge enough to create our own spells that can be shared with Deyinara and the rest of the world."

He gave me a sideways look.

"I take it your world had priests too?"

"In stories," I said, "yeah. They were usually a little flashier."

"Flashy gets you killed," he said. "Reliable keeps you alive."

"Fair point."

He smirked and stood, stretching his arms until his back cracked.

"Enough talk for now. The sun's setting, and your core won't form in a day. Get some rest, and tomorrow we'll begin mana sense drills."

I nodded and rose carefully, balancing on my remaining leg as Nyx leapt up onto my shoulder, light as a feather.

As I hoped back toward my room, the rune above my arm stump gave a faint, pleasant hum — as if Deyinara herself had overheard the conversation.

Knowledge. Understanding.

I was starting to realize just how much those words meant in Florence.