The square was no longer loud.
It was tense.
Thousands of breaths were being held at once, the air thick with incense, dust, sweat, and fear. The chanting that had surged moments ago now faded into a trembling murmur, like waves retreating before a coming storm.
The Saintess stood motionless at the center of the execution platform.
Tears slid endlessly down her cheeks, catching in the light before dripping onto the stone. Her lips trembled, but no sound escaped. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths as if her lungs had forgotten how to draw air properly.
She did not wipe her tears away.
She only looked at Luca.
Not pleading.
Not begging.
Just… searching.
For an answer.
For confirmation.
For something to hold onto.
And Luca stood before her, his back straight, gaze steady, the black armor faintly humming beneath his skin. Dust still clung to his boots from his landing, drifting slowly down around him like ash.
His eyes never left the bishop.
