THE SAINT OF SHADOWS

1

Rain fell like a whip striking stone. Cassian Holt pulled his hood tighter and walked along the cobbled path leading to the Merrin family home on the edge of the village. In his right hand, he held a rusted iron rosary; in his left, a damp prayer book heavy as sin.

The voice had called to him ever since the church bell had tolled three times for no reason — a sign that, in this village, could mean only one thing: someone was possessed.

The Merrin house was dark, lit only by a torch dripping oil by the door. From inside came the sound of a woman’s scream, then the crash of something breaking. An old man, his face panicked and his eyes vacant, greeted Cassian the moment he arrived.

“Father… she—she bit her own tongue!”

Cassian didn’t answer. He pushed the door open, the scent of blood and burning wax filling his lungs. In the center of the room, a young girl named Alene lay on the floor, her body rigid, her eyes wide and glassy. Each breath she took shuddered strangely, as though holding something desperate to get out.

Cassian knelt beside her, set the book on the ground, and opened its age-yellowed pages. “In the name of the Light, I command this dark spirit—”

Alene laughed.

The sound didn’t belong to a girl. It didn’t belong to any human.

“Light?” it said, in a broken, echoing voice. “You speak of light, Cassian Holt?”

Cassian froze. No one in this village knew his full name. They only knew him as Father Cassian.

Alene’s hand clutched his robe, her nails long and black, and the air thickened like fog. Cassian gritted his teeth, pressing the cross to her chest.

“In the name of God—”

“Your God has forsaken you,” the voice hissed. “He knows your blood is darker than ours.”

The torchlight flickered, and for an instant Cassian saw something that was not the girl’s body. A shadow bulged beneath her skin — the shape of a man, tall, robed in black, with a face that was… identical to his own.

Cassian’s heart stopped for a beat.

Then silence. Alene went limp, unconscious. The voice was gone, but Cassian could still hear its echo whispering in his mind: You cannot cast me out. I was born from your own prayer.

He looked at the cross in his hand. It was cracked down the middle, as if it had burned from within.

Outside, the church bell rang again.

Three times.

Cassian drew a long breath. His eyes stayed on the girl, making sure her breathing had steadied, her pupils returned to human. For a moment, there was only stillness—then someone knelt before him.

“Thank you, Father Cassian… God bless you,” the old man rasped, voice trembling with emotion.

Cassian straightened, suppressing the faint tremor in his hands. “There is no need for thanks. I only offered prayer. The rest was His will.”

But they didn’t hear his humility.

One by one, the villagers knelt as well—some kissing the hem of his robe, some praying through tears. In the corner, a young mother stepped forward and offered him something: a small silver pendant, tarnished, with a black stone at its center.

“Father, this is… our family’s protective charm. We want you to have it.”

Cassian stared at the pendant for a long time. The black stone felt cold—almost alive—throbbing faintly in his palm. He wanted to refuse, but their eyes, filled with hope, fear, and faith, left him unable to say no.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I will keep it.”

A small cheer rose from the crowd—relief mixed with gratitude. A middle-aged man stepped closer, gripping Cassian’s shoulder.

“This village needs a guardian, Father. The demons… spirits, whatever they are—they don’t stop. People are afraid to go out at night. We believe only you can protect us.”

The words cut deeper than any praise, especially after what he had just seen in that exorcism — the image of something that looked all too familiar.

The rain hadn’t stopped when Cassian left the Merrin house.

The sky over Valehollow was black as coal, as if the night itself refused to end. He walked through mud and puddles, his robe heavy against his skin. Every footstep sounded louder than it should — two steps, not one.

He halted.

Turned.

No one was there. Only the old pine trees swayed, their branches whispering like prayers forced through clenched teeth. Cassian wiped his face, steadying his breath, and continued forward. But again, the second set of footsteps followed — clear, in rhythm with his own.

“Who’s there?” His voice was hoarse, swallowed by the rain.

No answer.

He quickened his pace, descending the stony path toward the church. In the distance, the bell tolled again — three slow chimes. But he knew no one was on duty. The sound was a summons, or a warning.

Lightning split the sky.

And in that flash, Cassian saw it.

A dark figure stood at the end of the road, twenty paces ahead. Tall, cloaked, its robe torn like his own. For a fraction of a second, the light revealed its face—and Cassian froze.

Because the figure standing there… was him.

Or something wearing his face.

He dropped the prayer book still clutched in his hand and began to move quickly. The shadow didn’t flee, only watched in silence. But when Cassian broke into a run, it turned and walked into the forest.

“Stop!”

Cassian plunged through the downpour, branches whipping his face. The forest was dense, roots jutting from the ground like old hands trying to trip him. Still, his steps didn’t falter. His breath came ragged, his eyes locked on the flicker of a black cloak ahead.

Every time he neared, the figure vanished — only to reappear farther ahead, deeper into the woods, as though leading him somewhere.

At last, Cassian stopped at the riverbank. The water was dark and fast, churning under the lightning’s glow. On the opposite side, the figure stood among the mist. This time, it didn’t move at all.

Cassian raised his cross. “Show me who you are!”

The shadow mirrored his motion perfectly.

Right hand, same cross, same bowed head in the same silent prayer.

Then its lips moved.

But no prayer came out.

The voice entered Cassian’s mind directly — cold and deep as the river itself:

“I’m waiting for you to forgive yourself.”

Lightning struck. The river roared. And when the flash faded, the figure was gone.

Cassian stood alone. The cross in his hand trembled, and his shadow stretched unnaturally long across the ground — too long, reaching into the darkness beyond sight.

He stared at it for a long time, as the same whisper echoed through his mind:

Prayer won’t save you this time, Cassian Holt.