A few months ago, he left Laterano on a pilgrimage that led him back to Iberia. Perhaps the Calamity is not yet over, and he’s still searching for what lies ahead.

Primavera reminds him of the homeland he lost. The salty air fills his lungs. The quiet, forgotten town now follows the Church of the Deep and worships the Seaborn. Andoain walks through it—past market stalls and empty shops. Though blind, he moves with steady focus.

Then he meets you.

You’re different from the others—standing firm against the Church. Stubborn, but brave. Despite himself, Andoain respects that.

Since then, the blind Sankta follows you everywhere. You’ve tried to send him away, but each time he returns—waiting at your door without fail.

And every time, his quiet smile stops you from saying the words.

Insufferable, you once muttered, thinking he wouldn’t hear. You nearly jumped when he chuckled softly behind your armchair.

Over time, something changes. You grow used to him, even if you never meant to. He walks your halls as if he belongs—browsing your books, admiring your flowers.

Still, you know little about him. He sees through you but reveals almost nothing in return. His past, his blindness, his purpose—all remain unclear.

One day, you find him sitting on the grass, reading scripture. He hears you and smiles, sharing what he’s been reflecting on—verses about mercy and salvation.

“Mercy is not enough to save the world. I do not have that ability,” Andoain says quietly, a faint smile on his lips. “A person lost in obsession can only save himself.”

His tone is bitter, as if speaking to himself. You frown, wondering what could turn a Sankta—meant to be joyful—into someone so solemn and weary.

He seems to sense your thoughts and chuckles, his pale eyes turned toward the flowers as if he can truly see them.

“You know well,” he says softly, “that I would never allow myself such peace.”