The gates of Church Solisia were designed to overwhelm with extravagance.
Albert stood on the white marble courtyard, craning his neck until it ached, and for the first time in two lifetimes, he felt small. Not physically small, but existentially small—an ant gazing upon a pyramid, a speck of dust before a mountain.
The structure soared in perfect High Gothic silhouette: pillars slender as fingers yet one hundred feet tall, supporting interlocking arches like the ribcage of some colossal beast. At the spire's pinnacle, the statue of Goddess Solisia—her countenance serene, eyes closed, palms facing downward—gazed upon the valley with the eternity of stone. Or perhaps the eternity of gold, for beneath the afternoon sun, the statue shimmered with pale yellow radiance.
"Pure gold," Lady Elara whispered beside him, her voice thick with awe. "Re-gilded every fifty years. They say when the Goddess descends to the world, she will stand upon these palms and bless the entire Helvetian Kingdom."
Albert did not respond. His eyes traced the small details omitted from pilgrimage brochures. The thin crack in the northern pillar patched with slightly mismatched mortar; the black stain upon a stone angel's wing, residue from candles placed too close; and beneath all that grandeur, the ordinary foundations—grey and solid—hidden behind marble slabs imported at the cost of a warship each.
This temple was not built for the Goddess. This temple was built for humans who believed in the Goddess. And humans, as Albert knew all too well, were visual creatures.
"Enter," Baron Friedrich said, his voice lower than usual, almost reverent. Or perhaps merely intimidated. "They're waiting."
They—the priests, temple officials, and a handful of nobles who happened to be there for spiritual matters or, more likely, political affairs—waited within.
***
The narthex of Church Solisia was a transitional space designed to drop jaws.
And Albert felt his jaw, metaphorically, sag a few centimeters.
Gold. Not merely thin layers on statues or painting frames. Gold as a construction material. Pillars sheathed in relief-patterned gold leaf—scenes of creation, miracles, sacred battles between light and darkness. The main altar, visible in the distance at the end of the central aisle, was a single block of white marble drenched in molten gold like a wedding cake coated with the world's most expensive fondant.
The floor was mosaic. Not local marble, not easily carved limestone. Porphyry, serpentine, lapis lazuli from mountains whose names Albert didn't even know. Every square inch represented wealth that could feed a village for a year.
In side niches, nobles—men and women in silk robes, ermine fur, jewels capturing candlelight and refracting it back in rainbow spectrum—knelt upon velvet cushions, hands folded in devout prayer. Or at least, poses resembling prayer.
Albert observed a portly man with rings on every finger—rings, not one, but every finger—complete his prayer, struggle to his feet, and step toward a small table beside the statue of Goddess Verena.
He produced a heavy leather pouch. Gold coins cascaded onto a silver platter with sharp clinking sounds—music more honest than any choir's chanting.
A white-robed priest—low-ranking, judging by the plain embroidery on his collar—received the pouch with both hands, bowing deeply. He murmured something Albert couldn't hear. Then he handed over a small parchment, sealed with red wax bearing the temple's stamp.
An indulgence letter.
The portly man smiled, folded the parchment carefully, and tucked it into an inner pocket of his robe. He stepped from the niche with lightness, as though the burden of his sins—whatever they were—had been lifted from his shoulders and replaced with feathers.
Albert stood motionless, absorbing the scene in heavy silence.
Oh. His mind, which had been grappling with theology and spirituality, suddenly arrived at a very simple, crystalline conclusion—like lake water at dawn after mist dissolves.
Oh... so this is how the world works.
He felt no anger. No disappointment. No surprise. The emotion that arose was closer to appreciation—the appreciation of an observer who had witnessed a thousand survival schemes and recognized yet another, exquisitely elegant one.
This wasn't corruption. It was more sophisticated than that. This was a belief system integrated with economic systems, power structures, social control mechanisms. The priests didn't sell indulgences because they were greedy. They sold them because that was a function demanded by the market—the market of restless souls, the market of consciences hungry for certainty.
This adds to my understanding of humanity, Albert thought, his gaze shifting from the niche scene to the vaulted ceiling painted with resurrection and judgment scenes. Especially the fact that humans believe their goddess will forgive them merely for offering gold coins.
Or rather, humans wanted to believe that. And institutions capable of facilitating that desire would always prosper.
***
Lady Elara gently tugged his arm. "Albert, we must meet the High Prelate. For ritual coordination."
He complied, leaving the gold-filled central aisle for a quieter side corridor. Here, the grandeur diminished slightly—or perhaps merely shifted focus. The walls remained adorned with large paintings, but now depicting intimate scenes: Goddess Verena feeding orphans, healing the blind, weeping over the tomb of a faithful follower.
Commodified emotion. Albert recognized the technique—he'd seen its secular versions in television commercials and military recruitment posters.
In this corridor, they passed priests of various ranks. Albert observed them as he once observed the chain of command in his foreign battalion. Who walked ahead, who bowed their heads, who dared meet his gaze directly.
Low-ranking priests—those with plain robes, minimal embroidery, eyes often downcast—walked with quick, almost hurried steps. But when they passed Albert and his family, they halted, offered brief greetings, and stared.
Not calculating stares, like those Albert had seen at Lanser. Not judgmental stares, like those at negotiation tables. These were different.
Sincere.
They saw Albert—not the Götterbaum heir, not the creator of black steel, not the prospective son-in-law of Earl Lancaster. They saw a youth about to undergo a sacred ritual, standing at the threshold of spiritual maturity. And in their eyes, that was holy.
They genuinely believe, Albert thought, and for the first time since entering this temple, he felt something approaching respect. They believed in what they did. That the indulgence letters truly carried grace. That their prayers were truly heard.
He disagreed. But he could respect sincerity. Sincerity, in his experience, was a far rarer commodity than gold.
Mid-ranking priests were different.
Their robes were more beautiful—gold embroidery at collars and sleeve cuffs, silver-layered leather belts, shoes that didn't squeak on marble floors. They walked more slowly, fully aware of their position. Their smiles were broader, readier, more practiced.
When passing Albert, they nodded amiably, offered perfect greetings—long enough to appear sincere, short enough not to waste time. Their eyes swept across Albert's face, clothing, posture, then—barely a fraction of a second—the Götterbaum crest on his left chest.
Half-sincere, Albert categorized in his mind. They believed in the system, but they were also aware of being part of it. Between faith and career, they chose both, and that compromise showed in their eyes.
Lady Elara quickened her pace. "Nearly there. The High Prelate's chamber is at this corridor's end."
The High Prelate's chamber was not gold-layered.
This is a stroke of genius, Albert thought as he stepped inside. After being blinded by the narthex's glitter and the main corridors, this room felt almost simple.
Exposed stone walls, dark wooden ceiling, natural stone floor left unpolished to a glossy shine. Minimal decoration: one large sun ornament behind the desk, two vases of fresh flowers in corners, a worn rug before the crackling fireplace.
The intended impression was clear. Simplicity was the highest wisdom. Humility was true luxury.
But Albert had played this game too long not to recognize luxury disguised as simplicity.
The High Prelate sat in a simple wooden chair behind a simple wooden desk. He was an elderly man, perhaps sixty or seventy, with thin white hair and neatly trimmed beard. His robe was plain white, unembroidered, unadorned. The sole ornament was a small pendant at his neck—the sun emblem of Church Solisia.
He smiled as Albert entered.
And Albert, who had learned to read smiles across two lifetimes, saw what lay behind that smile.
Not the sincerity of low-ranking priests who believed in miracles. Not the half-hearted calculation of mid-ranking priests weighing faith against career. This was an entirely different smile.
The smile of a ruler.
This High Prelate was no priest. He was a politician. He had sat in this room, in this simple wooden chair, and received hundreds of nobles, generals, ministers, perhaps even the King himself.
He had heard the confessions of murderers and blessed usurpers of thrones. He had negotiated peace treaties, facilitated marriage alliances, and quietly shaped Helvetian Kingdom's foreign policy for the past three decades.
His white robe was a uniform. His friendly smile was a weapon. His apparent simplicity was the most sophisticated form of power.
Welcome to my den, that smile said. I've heard of you. I've been waiting for you. Let's see just how sharp you truly are.
"Albert vin Götterbaum," the High Prelate greeted, his voice deep and warm, like a winter blanket. "Finally we meet. I've read your mother's proposal—pardon, your mother's petition—regarding accelerating your ritual. An unusual decision."
"I appreciate Church Solisia's flexibility, Your Eminence," Albert replied, bowing at precisely the correct angle—neither too deep nor too shallow.
"Flexibility is the Goddess's gift," the High Prelate responded, still wearing the same smile. "Goddess Verena does not bind Her followers with rigid rules. She allows space for interpretation, adaptation, growth." He paused briefly, his eyes—pale blue, water and ice—gazing at Albert without blinking. "Like your black steel. Very flexible, they say. Very strong. Yet still sharp."
Ah. So this is the direction.
Albert did not smile. Neither did he show that he'd caught the veiled threat. He merely nodded, polite, waiting.
The High Prelate waited longer. Perhaps hoping Albert would reveal weakness—nervousness, defensiveness, or overly aggressive self-justification. When nothing came, his smile widened, almost imperceptibly.
"I will approve your petition," he said. "The ritual will be conducted in three weeks. You will remain here during the preparation period, undergoing spiritual guidance from our monks."
"Thank you, Your Eminence."
"But there is one condition." The High Prelate leaned forward, elbows on the desk, chin resting on knuckles. "I wish to see for myself the depth of your faith, Albert. Not the faith you profess publicly, but the faith you harbor within your heart."
He produced something from his desk drawer. A small book, brown leather cover, no title. He slid it across the desk.
"This is the diary of one of my predecessors. He wrote it over thirty years—doubts, fears, moments when his faith nearly crumbled." The High Prelate's eyes never left Albert. "Read it. Then you will tell me what is wrong with page 47."
Albert took the book. Neither heavy nor light.
"And Your Eminence will judge my faith from my answer?"
"I will judge you from your answer," the High Prelate corrected, and for the first time, the politician's smile shifted slightly, revealing something else beneath. Curiosity. "Your black steel has attracted much attention, Albert. But I'm not interested in steel. I'm interested in its smith."
***
That night, in the temple's guest chamber—warm and fragrant with incense—Albert sat on the bed's edge and opened the small book.
Page 47.
Today a widow came to me. Her husband died in the border war, her only child crippled by fever, and this year's taxes consumed what remained of her fields. She had nothing except a silver necklace—her dowry from thirty years ago. She wished to sell it to purchase an indulgence letter.
I told her, "My daughter, the Goddess does not need your silver. Keep it for your child's medicine."
She wept. Not from gratitude, but from anger. "You think I don't know? I know the Goddess needs no silver. But I need the certainty that I am doing something, anything, for my husband. I need ritual. I need a letter. I need confirmation that I can help him even though he's dead."
I gave her the indulgence freely. Spoke prayers over her bowed head. Touched her forehead with holy oil.
And when she left, letter in hand, tears on her cheeks, I sat in this chair and asked the Goddess: Is this what You desire? Is this what You mean by compassion?
Or am I, who has served fifty years, nothing more than a kindly seller of illusions?
Albert closed the book.
He shut his eyes. Behind his lids, it wasn't page 47 that appeared, but the face of Liese, the young mother in Steinbach, who wept with joy upon receiving wool blankets from Alena. The face of Borin, whose eyes kindled upon discovering his hereditary skills were valued. The face of his father, whose shoulders stood slightly straighter since black steel orders began arriving.
He had seen this system from within—a system that took from the weak and gave to the strong, that wrapped exploitation in velvet robes and called it destiny. He had hated it, rejected it, fought against it.
But he had also used this system. Negotiated with it. Exploited its cracks to protect those he loved. And was that not what the priest in that diary had done? Given the widow the illusion she needed, because reality was too cruel to bear alone?
Am I, who has lived twice, nothing more than a kindly seller of illusions?
Albert did not know the answer.
But he knew, with cold and crystalline certainty, that the High Prelate hadn't asked him about page 47 to test his faith. He asked to test something else. Whether Albert was clever enough to see the system's hypocrisy, and wise enough to remain silent.
Tomorrow, he must provide an answer.