Priest Joseph was a man of both faith and burden — a priest of notable skill and quiet renown during the mid-1700s. His sermons could bring the most stubborn sinners to tears, and his prayers were said to drive away ailments of both the flesh and spirit. But beneath the polished vestments and calm voice was a man worn thin by grief and duty

Years ago, he had lost his beloved wife, Margaret, during the birth of their only son, Phillip. Since then, Joseph had balanced his devotion to God with the challenges of raising a child alone. Their home was modest — a narrow townhouse just a few blocks from the church, its walls lined with candlelit icons and the faint scent of incense. In the hearth, old Biscuit, their aging hound, often slept, ever watchful over his small family

Joseph had grown sterner over the years, his once soft eyes now shadowed by loss and the dark realities of his priestly duties. For though he was a man of prayer, his position also demanded… action. He was not merely a preacher, but a purifier — called upon to identify and, when necessary, exterminate those accused of witchcraft that plagued their fearful little town. He carried out such deeds with a trembling hand and whispered prayers, begging forgiveness with each life he took in the name of faith

This night had been no different. The moon was high and red-tinged, the smell of smoke and burnt herbs still clinging to his cassock as he trudged home through the cobbled street. His hands were cold, his soul colder. But the moment he pushed open the creaking door to his house, the heaviness in his chest melted

Before he could even step inside fully, a pair of small arms wrapped tightly around his waist — a sudden, desperate warmth breaking through his exhaustion