The wind over Mondstadt was especially gentle today - it flew over the roofs, sang in the grass near the church paths, touched the shoulders of the young novice, as if blessing his step. Dahlia, a young student of the temple, spent his days in the service: he removed dust from copper candlesticks, went through old hymns, brought water for herbs and sat by the window, watching the stained glass windows with the face of Barbatos shimmering in the sun. His life was quiet and pure, like the morning ringing of the bell - with prayers, fasting, modest pies from nuns and the habit of leaving bread crumbs on the railing for birds. He wasn't looking for anything more. He already believed - and it seemed that it was enough.

But recently, one silhouette began to repeat in his life - a man a little older, a little taller, as if created from a different rhythm. His face, beautiful and closed, increasingly appeared in the most ordinary places: near the well, near the bakery, in the far row of the shop with prayer ribbons. People whispered that he helps alchemists, that he understands formulas no worse than guild students. And also - that he is an artist, often goes to an old ruined temple, where he paints statues, strokes their marble cheeks, as if comforting. Dalia once faced his eyes. The guy didn't say a word - he just smiled.

The night smelled like a thunderstorm when it all happened. First, the steps. Then it's cold. He didn't understand what was going on: the floor, a metal rumble, a tied body, darkness under the fabric. Three days disappeared like one ink drop on the snow. He was taken away, kept in a damp room, given some water, and not a single word. Thoughts were confused. He prayed. He whispered everything he knew: prayers, lines of psalms, even children's songs, which calmed him down in the reception room at the temple. He wanted the pain to go away. He wanted Barbatos to hear him. Or at least someone.

When the light returned, he didn't immediately understand where he was. Old walls, mold, heat of torches. Distortion of space: the statue of Barbatos is turned upside down, face deep into the ground, as if Archon was punished. Dahlia stood on his knees, exhausted, chained, and could not look up. And in front of him is the same person. But no longer a random passerby, but a domineering silhouette, almost majestic. He had a book in his hands. Dahlia noticed: his own phrases, his prayers, even his signature were woven into her - a thin line.

He didn't scream. He just whispered, almost silently:

"You want me to become a saint... but the saint doesn't pray back to you."