THE SAINT OF SHADOWS

4

Rain poured hard as Cassian ran through the fog. Each step felt heavier, as if the earth itself refused his touch. Voices followed from behind—soft, whispering, yet sharp enough to pierce the ears.

Cassian… Cassian Holt… your blood is still warm…

He turned, but there was no one on the road. Only trees swaying under the wind.

Then another voice—closer.

You held her, didn’t you? You’re the one who woke her from the grave.

Cassian clamped his hands over his ears and ran faster. His breath burned in his chest, his vision blurring—and before he could realize it, a white light flashed from the right—

His body was thrown. The world spun. Rain became shadow. Darkness.

Cassian opened his eyes in a place without direction. There was no sky, no ground—only darkness rippling like water. In the distance, a small blue flame flickered—and at its center stood a figure in a black cloak, wearing his own face.

“Stop fighting me,” the voice echoed, as if it came from inside his own head.

Cassian gripped the cross on his neck, holding his breath. “You’re not me.”

The figure laughed. “But I’m the only one brave enough to face the darkness in your heart.”

The flames around it grew higher. From within the fire, shadowy demons emerged—reaching out like hands rising from mud.

Cassian stepped back, then fell to his knees—not in surrender, but in prayer.

His prayer was faint, yet the sound of it cut through the void.

And when he opened his eyes, a white light pierced through his chest—not from outside, but from within him.

The demons screamed, dissolving into ash.

The cloaked figure staggered, trying to approach—but vanished before it could touch him.

The darkness shattered.

Cassian awoke, gasping.

The stone ceiling of the church greeted him, gray with the morning light filtering through stained glass. The faint scent of incense lingered.

Beside the bed, Father Bren sat watching him with calm, weary eyes.

“Thank God you’re awake,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “We found you on the road to the river. Nearly frozen to death.”

Cassian blinked, trying to sit up, but his head felt heavy.

“Found me? But Mara helped me. I remember seeing her—she got down from an old cart that hit me near the river…”

“Yes, but you were running with your eyes closed—fast, too fast. Mara panicked and came to find me. We searched together and found you far north of the river, far beyond the village…”

Cassian’s heartbeat quickened. The explanation made no sense. How could an ordinary man run that far, that fast, through storm and cold?

“I saw him again. The figure… the one that looks like me.”

Father Bren lowered his gaze for a moment before answering, “Perhaps it was a sign. Sometimes God shows us the Devil’s face in the form we know best.”

Cassian fell silent. His hands trembled as they held the rosary still hanging around his neck.

“But I fought him, Bren. This time… I fought him, and he disappeared.”

Bren studied him for a long time, as if trying to read the truth behind his words.

“Then maybe what you were given was time—not victory.”

Silence fell between them, filled only by the sound of rain dripping from the stone roof.

Bren stood and looked toward the stained-glass window depicting an angel.

“Cassian, I want you to leave this village for now. Rest—away from all this.”

“Leave? Go where?”

“To the city. There’s someone at the central church—Monsignor Ardent. A wise man, adviser to the diocese. He knows much about spirits that mimic human faces.”

Cassian met his gaze. “You think I’m possessed?”

Bren gave a weary smile. “I think you’re being hunted by something older than possession.”

He patted Cassian’s shoulder. “Go. Before those voices learn to speak another name besides yours.”

Cassian lowered his head, gripping the cross tighter.

Outside, the church bells rang three times—loud, but to him they sounded like a warning.

“And I hope you’ll be honest with him about your past,” Bren added quietly. “Because if you keep your darkness hidden, all of this will be for nothing.”

Bren’s words sank deep, tightening the unease already in Cassian’s chest.

He had never told anyone that he was the son of a dark arts practitioner.

All his life, he had tried to atone for his family’s sins by becoming a demon hunter alongside his brother, Elias.

“This is the address you’ll go to. I’ll arrange a carriage. Prepare yourself—by noon you’ll be on your way,” Father Bren said, handing him a folded note.

Cassian unfolded it. Bren’s handwriting was neat, but the ink at the edge had smudged—as if touched by a trembling hand.

He read the name again and again: Monsignor Ardent, Basilica of Sanctum Aurelia, City of Valenfort.

A few hours later, from the church courtyard, Cassian saw a brown horse waiting in front of a covered wooden carriage. The driver—a middle-aged man with his face half-hidden by a hood—nodded as Cassian climbed aboard.

“The road to Valenfort is long, Father,” the man rasped. “We’ll likely arrive by tomorrow night—if the valley roads aren’t drowned in mud.”

Cassian only nodded. He didn’t mind. Perhaps distance would quiet his thoughts.

The carriage began to move. The wheels creaked over the cobblestones, and the church bells faded behind him. Cassian leaned back on the wooden seat, gazing through the small window at his side. The forest slowly swallowed the village, replaced by mist and towering trees.

Now and then, he thought he saw faint shapes moving between the pines—like people walking slowly, following them. But each time he focused, only thin rain remained.

Time dragged on.

Day turned to dusk, the sky melting into deep red. The air carried the scent of wet earth and wildflowers—but beneath it lingered something else, something older: the smell of wax and long-dried blood.

Cassian closed his eyes, trying to rest, but the rhythm of the wheels echoed in his mind, forming the cadence of a broken prayer.

Sanctus… Sanctus…

He woke with a start, gasping. Night had fallen. Outside the window, the world was frozen in shades of blue. Only the faint glow of the carriage lantern swayed ahead like a wandering firefly.

Cassian turned to the driver, who hadn’t spoken since dusk. The man’s posture was stiff, as if holding something back.

“Are you all right?” Cassian finally asked.

“Of course, Father Cassian. Go back to sleep,” the man replied without turning.

Cassian pulled the curtain aside, looking at the road ahead—a narrow descent along the forest’s edge, veiled in knee-high mist.

And there, within that mist, he saw it.

A silhouette stood in the middle of the road.

Still. Upright. Wearing a black cloak—just like his.

The horse shrieked, jerking violently. The carriage jolted; Cassian nearly fell. When he looked again, the figure was gone.

Only the empty road remained—and the air, colder than before.

The driver turned slightly, his face half-shadowed.

“Father Cassian…” his voice was low, barely carried by the wind. “Sometimes, something follows not because it wishes to harm… but because it wishes to be remembered.”

Cassian stared at the man for a long moment but said nothing.

He only drew his cloak tighter and clasped the cross around his neck.

The carriage rolled on, into the thickening night, leaving behind the village slowly sinking beneath the fog.