Interlude: Church of the Mother Goddess

After the tumultuous defeat of the dragon, a victory etched into the kingdom's recent memory, the Church of the Mother Goddess experienced a dramatic, almost explosive, surge in both power and influence. No longer merely a spiritual beacon, it solidified its position as a formidable political force. Backed explicitly by the Duke, by King George himself, and by a constellation of other prominent nobles—from powerful counts to influential barons—the Church's reach extended far beyond the confines of its sacred altars.

It now owned vast tracts of fertile land, collecting not just tithes, but also taxes from those who leased its territories, effectively acting as a parallel government. Grand cathedrals, their gilded spires piercing the clouds like prayers made manifest, stood tall and dominant in every major city. Smaller, humble chapels, their wooden frames weathered by time, dotted the countryside, serving as essential community hubs. Here, the faithful found healing for their ailments, blessings for their crops, and the comforting, unwavering teachings of the Mother Goddess. Their priests, robed in pristine white and gold, preached messages of righteousness, purity, and unwavering devotion, often condemning with fiery sermons the use of forbidden or "evil" powers, driving a wedge between the sacred and the profane.

The Church's unwavering alliance with the Duke was one of the most critical reasons King George had not, and perhaps could not, move decisively against him. To depose the Duke was to risk not only outright civil war, tearing the kingdom asunder, but also to risk the far more insidious threats of excommunication, widespread public outrage, or worse, from the now-omnipotent Church. The clergy's immense political weight made it an undeniable cornerstone of the realm's fragile balance of power.

Enforcing the Church's stringent will was the dreaded Inquisition. More than just a judicial body, they were judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one terrifying, zealous entity. They hunted heretics and practitioners of dark magic with a chilling, unyielding mercy. It was whispered in shadowed taverns and nervous hushed tones that those unfortunate enough to be caught by the Inquisition were subjected to unspeakable torments: burned with divine fire—flames said to be immune to normal water, inextinguishable by any earthly means—and then miraculously healed, only to be burned again, the agony prolonged. Some were given a grim choice, a macabre act of mercy: face ultimate death, or atone by swearing fealty and using their formidable powers in the sacred name of the Goddess, their very abilities twisted to serve a new master.

Crusader Knights were equally terrifying, their presence radiating an aura of unwavering conviction. These holy warriors, clad in gleaming plate armor etched with divine symbols, possessed a potent blend of magic and raw physical strength that rivaled even powerful magic beasts. They frequently launched perilous expeditions into Tenebrae Mortis, a cursed region crawling with unspeakable monstrosities and nightmares from the old world, the Church's unwavering bulwark against encroaching darkness. These knights bore powerful divine blessings, carried ancient holy relics that shimmered with sacred power, and wielded sacred weapons that glowed faintly with inner light. Their healing magic was distinct, not drawn from nature or learned spells like common healers, but from a profound divine source—said to be directly gifted by the Goddess herself, manifesting as golden light that knitted flesh and banished corruption.

Within the cathedrals, Nuns and Cathedral Heads offered daily rites, blessings, and healing to the devout. Holy water, blessed and consecrated, was dispensed freely to ward off curses or to cleanse the impure, a tangible symbol of divine protection. Witchcraft and demonic pacts, however, were crimes deemed unforgivable, sins against the very essence of the Mother Goddess. Such abominations summoned the Inquisition without hesitation, their swift, brutal justice unavoidable.

Then there were the Paladins—the elite of the elite. These were exceptional warriors, bound by unbreakable, sacred oaths, wielding holy magic with devastating precision. They were capable of cleaving through reinforced steel, monstrous beasts, and hardened men alike with equal, righteous fury. Some among them, the most devout and powerful, were even rumored to hold direct contracts with angelic beings, beings of pure light and celestial power.

The cathedrals themselves stood as towering monuments to the Church's divine favor and immense worldly wealth—their spires of gilded stone reaching heavenward, their vast interiors illuminated by the kaleidoscope of light filtering through exquisite celestial stained glass. The grand halls echoed with the resonant power of hymns sung by devout choirs, their voices weaving a tapestry of sound. The central cathedral of the Papal State was said to be so breathtakingly magnificent, so awe-inspiring in its divine artistry, that it could move even a hardened warrior to tears, stripping away their cynicism with its sheer, overwhelming beauty.

The Papal State itself operated as an autonomous region, a sovereign territory free from any king's influence, maintaining its own formidable standing army. Its independence was a constant reminder of the Church's supreme power. Whispers, like restless shadows, now spread through the capital: an Inquisitor is on the way. And if that's true, then something—or someone—is about to be judged, and the judgment will be absolute.

The Pope remained an enigma, a figure shrouded in mystery. Always veiled, their identity concealed, they spoke only through appointed voices, rarely, if ever, seen in public by anyone outside the highest echelons of the Church. Yet it is said their power rivals that of archmages who bend reality to their will, and even the most feared demon-bound warlocks. Bishops and senior clergy were no less formidable, wielding significant spiritual and political influence. And then there were the Saintesses—chosen vessels of divine will, their holy affinity so incredibly strong it could instantly repel ancient curses, purify the wicked with a mere touch, and, some whispered, even call upon miracles directly from the Goddess herself, bending the very fabric of existence to her will.