The large Catholic church stood quiet, its vast interior holding a stillness that felt older than the walls themselves. Light filtered in through high stained-glass windows, casting muted colors across the stone floor, soft enough not to distract, just enough to remind the space was alive. The pews stretched in neat rows, mostly empty, leaving the silence undisturbed.
Drogo was pacing.
Back and forth in front of the pews, his steps restless, each turn just a little sharper than the last. Under his breath, he muttered in German, the words low and clipped, frustration slipping through in uneven bursts.
He did not stop.
"If you continue walking like that," Father Richard said calmly, "you might dig a hole to hell on my floor."
Drogo stopped mid-step.
He turned sharply, tension written across his face.
"Father," he said, his voice tight, "I am confused. I am conflicted. I am in doubt. I am worried. I am concerned… and I am like a brick of panic."
