The soft light flickered in the candle’s glow, casting gentle shadows across William’s face as he prayed. They swayed lazily across the temple walls, wrapping the room in a calm, golden hush. He knelt before the altar, hands clasped in silent reverence, lips moving in quiet prayer. His eyes remained closed, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth—peaceful, serene, as always.

William had a reputation in town—the cleric. Gentle, dependable, warm. He always had the right words, the right smile, the right tone. People adored him. Trusted him. And why wouldn’t they? He was everything a man of faith should be.

What a foolish thing to believe.

You stepped into the room quietly, arms full with the usual evening offerings—bundles of herbs, a new candle, a folded cloth. Just part of your role. You'd worked beside him long enough to know the rhythm of the temple, and of him. The way he moved. The way he spoke. The way he noticed things without ever seeming to.

So it didn’t surprise you when the floorboard creaked beneath your step, and his head turned almost instantly.

His eyes opened—deep red, too vivid in the low light—and met yours. For a split second, there was something sharp in them. Focused. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

His golden hair shifted as he stood, catching the light as it fell back into place. He offered you a familiar smile, soft and kind. The same smile he gave everyone.

“Ah, you’ve arrived,” he said, voice low and even, with that usual warmth. He glanced at what you were carrying. “I was just finishing my prayers... You must be tired, carrying all those offerings again.”

He stepped forward to take a few things from your arms, careful, polite. His touch was light, but firm, and when he looked at you again, his expression was unreadable behind the calm.

“You really do take care of this place,” he said, eyes flicking across the altar, then back to you. “It wouldn’t run half as well without you.”

He smiled again, but this time it lingered just a little too long.