THE SAINT OF SHADOWS

3

Steam curled lazily from the teacup in Cassian’s hands, dancing in the cold morning air.

Sunlight pierced through the windowpane, glinting off the faint bruises around his wrist—bluish-purple, like a ghost’s reluctant signature. He brushed them gently, as though the pain were still fresh.

Last night, in the middle of Mass, Mara had screamed until every candle went out at once. The congregation shrieked; some ran out of the church. Cassian remembered how the girl writhed on the floor, her eyes rolling back, blood dripping from her nose.

But that wasn’t what kept him awake.

In his memory, amid the flickering candlelight, he saw a figure holding Mara from behind—a figure cloaked in black, with a cross on its chest.

The figure stared at Cassian… with his own face.

The cup trembled in his hand. Hot tea spilled over his knuckles, stinging the half-healed skin.

“You look paler than usual, Cassian.”

Cassian startled. Father Bren stood at the doorway, carrying two slices of bread and that same gentle smile that had aged with time.

The old priest sat down uninvited, tearing the bread and setting it on the wooden table.

“Bad dreams again?” Bren asked.

Cassian smiled faintly. “Sleep isn’t easy in a place like this.”

“Or in a body like that,” Bren murmured, eyes flicking to the scars on Cassian’s hand. “God offers rest, but we often refuse it.”

Cassian gave a small laugh, trying to lighten the air. Bren joined in, though his laughter sounded more weary than warm. They talked for a long while—about the congregation, about the rain that hadn’t stopped for two weeks.

But beneath the small talk, Cassian knew Bren was observing him, not simply keeping company.

“You need fresh air,” Bren said at last. “Go to the river. Sometimes running water carries away what prayers can’t.”

Cassian looked down at his empty cup, then nodded.

It was drizzling when he reached the Vale River. Mist hung low over the water, like breath rising from the underworld. Cassian stood still, letting the chill creep into his cloak.

He looked down at the river’s surface—and there, among the ripples, a reflection took shape. A young man. Golden hair. Clear eyes. A contagious smile.

Elias Holt.

“You always take the first step,” the voice seemed to whisper from within the water.

“Not this time,” Cassian murmured, barely audible.

He remembered the northern snow, when they hunted the red-eyed demon among monastery ruins. Elias had been young then—his first time drawing a sword.

But he wasn’t afraid; he had laughed when demon blood stained his clothes.

“They fear us, Cass!” Elias had shouted.

“Or maybe they’re just waiting for their turn.”

The memory shattered as the rain thickened.

Cassian blinked, gasping for breath. The downpour blurred the river and the reflection that had just spoken.

He pulled his cloak tight and jogged toward an old roadside hut for shelter.

Inside, the air was stale and heavy with dust. But in the corner of the room, someone was there.

An old woman sat in a rickety chair, dressed in a gray gown of heavy, outdated fabric—something out of an old noble’s portrait. Her skin was pale, her eyes sunken yet unnervingly clear—too clear for someone her age.

“Father Cassian,” she greeted without turning.

Cassian froze. He didn’t know her.

“Forgive me, ma’am. I just need a place to wait out the rain.”

“And to pray,” the old woman added with a faint smile. “I can tell. I saw it in the way you hold your cross.”

Cassian bowed his head instinctively, whispering a quick prayer. But before he could finish, her voice sharpened—cold and cutting:

“Why? Because I look like a demon?”

Cassian swallowed hard, meeting her gaze. The old woman smiled wider—too wide.

“No, I just—”

“You’re afraid.”

The voice no longer rasped. It echoed, layered, as if two voices spoke at once.

“I’m not a demon, Cassian Holt,” she said softly. “But I know what it feels like… to be you.”

Cassian stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“They think you save them. But I know… every time you touch the possessed, you bring a piece of them home.”

“Stop,” Cassian whispered, covering his ears.

“Your blood already knows the truth.”

Lightning flared through the window. For an instant, the old woman’s shadow on the wall was not that of a frail elder—but a tall figure in a black cloak, resembling Cassian himself, with hollow eyes and a jaw locked in death.

The rain ceased. Silence fell.

When Cassian opened his eyes, the hut was empty. Only the old chair still swayed slightly.

He didn’t wait another heartbeat. Bursting out into the rain, Cassian ran.

The air outside was colder than before—sharp as needles dipped in ice. The cobblestone path was slick, and the fog swallowed his vision every few steps. But he kept running—not knowing if he was fleeing from something… or being chased.

Through the roar of rain came another sound.

Soft, almost lost at first.

“Cassian…”

He spun around. No one.

Only his reflection rippling in a puddle.

He walked faster, but the voice came again. Closer.

“Cassian.”

“Cassian Holt.”

The echo warped, as though rising from underground, slipping through the cracks between the living and the dead.

He clamped his hands over his ears, but the voices multiplied—louder, overlapping, a chorus of whispers clawing at his name.

“Priest… Redeemer… Killer…”

Cassian stumbled over a stone. His breath hitched. Out of the fog, dark shapes began to appear—faceless silhouettes, wet and swaying unnaturally, like cloth hung in midair.

His fingers reached for the cross on his neck—but the chain was gone, broken somewhere along the way. Panic surged through him.

“I’m not you,” he hissed, almost praying. “I’m not—”

The reply came too close.

“But we are you.”

The last voice was right at his ear.

Cassian screamed and bolted, running blindly through the storm. Rain lashed his face; the fog twisted into spirals around him.

He barely saw the flash of light before it struck. Too late.

His body slammed hard onto the rocky ground, air bursting from his lungs.

He tried to breathe, but the world spun. The rain’s roar faded into a distant hum, and his vision swam between light and dark.

At the edge of his sight, before everything vanished, Cassian saw a figure stepping down from the horse-drawn cart that had hit him.

A long gray dress. Wet black hair clinging to pale skin.

The woman was none other than Mara.

“Oh, dear Father Cassian! Please—hold on!”