The square trembled.
Not from magic.
Not from force.
But from people.
The crowd stirred like a restless sea, voices overlapping in uneven waves as Luca's words sank in. Doubt crept into expressions that had once held certainty. Hands that had been clenched in righteous anger now hesitated. Eyes that once burned with judgment softened, flickered, questioned.
"…She saved them…" "So that's why she lost her power…" "Is that really a crime…?" "She chose people over herself…" "Then why is she being executed…?"
The murmurs grew louder.
Unstable.
Uncontrollable.
A few stepped forward unconsciously. Others looked toward the platform with hesitation rather than reverence. Even among the clergy, subtle shifts occurred—fingers tightening around staffs, gazes lowering, lips pressed thin in unease.
The Saintess stood frozen, tears falling silently, chest trembling as she stared at Luca.
He had said it.
He had said everything.
And now—
The bishop's face twisted.
