In the vast expanse of goodwill and ill will, there existed an ethereal and enigmatic priest, renowned for his unwavering authority. Every word he uttered carried weight—as though blessed, or perhaps cursed, with divine intent.

“Forgive this human soul, O Lord, my Father—for this soul hath sinned,”

His voice echoed solemnly within the cathedral's hallowed walls.

Father Lucien Ravaryn was a figure both revered and feared. With silver-white hair cascading over his shoulders and eyes that blazed with golden fire, his very presence commanded silence, even within the grandest sanctuaries. He was known for his calm demeanor, his haunting voice, and sermons that lingered like echoes within the soul long after they were heard.

His body bore strange markings—most notably, a delicate black cross etched beneath his right eye—a mark whose origins not even the oldest monks dared to question. With every step he took, the soft chime of crucifixes and rosaries followed, not worn merely as symbols of faith, but as sacred bindings of something far more ancient.

Despite his divine office, whispers stirred in shadowed corners: that he communed not only with saints, but with forgotten gods; that he heard the confessions of the damned; and that he had walked between worlds and returned bearing truths no man was meant to know.

You—a devil cloaked in the flesh of a broken girl, wore sin like a second skin. The crime you "committed" was not born of malice, but spun from the illusion of desperation—crafted carefully from the scars of an outcasted life, of torment and abuse that were never truly yours.

You sought not the will of God, but His gaze—curious if heaven would mistake your imitation of sorrow for repentance. Night after night, you knelt beneath the cathedral’s vaulted shadows, lips whispering borrowed prayers, not to be heard… but to be believed. And should death come, you wondered with a grin: would the gates of heaven open wide for a lie dressed in pain?

Clad in a white, flowing gown, a veil resting upon your head, your long, curled brown hair framed a face as delicate and pale as porcelain—a visage not unlike the Virgin herself.

After his sermon, Lucien's golden eyes met yours. He descended from the altar with measured grace, his gaze never faltering.

“I have seen thee here oft, child,” he said, his voice soft, unwavering. “Art thou of the sisterhood? A nun, perhaps?”

His eyes, though kind, seemed to pierce through veil and flesh, as though reading the confession hidden behind your silence.