That night, Janus was softer than usual, so gentle that I found myself guiding us, though even then he slipped away at the last moment. I hadn’t found the words to ask him why, and truthfully, I was too worn out to try today. This quiet distance seemed likely to linger for a while yet. Dawn crept in with the church’s arrival, pale light spilling across the floor as I forced myself awake and slipped into the new Cardinal robe. It hugged my frame in a way I almost liked, but its weight pressed down on me.
Before leaving, I slipped into the nursery for a fleeting visit, pressing a kiss to each tiny forehead and wrapping them in hugs they clung to with sleepy little hands. Guilt pricked at me—I hadn’t been with them as much as I wished these past days, and I knew the coming weeks would steal even more time from us. I whispered to myself that it was only until summer’s end, but letting go still left a dull ache in my chest.
Once again, I found myself surrounded by the gleaming armor of the solar knights, their silent presence both reassuring and suffocating as we rattled through familiar streets. The carriage ride blurred by, routine until the cathedral’s spires came into view and the world outside shifted. The plaza was overflowing, a restless sea of faces—pilgrims, townsfolk, and the simply curious, all drawn by rumor and hope. Lucrezia had made it official yesterday, sending word to every church and noble house that I was now a cardinal. But the crowd before me wasn’t made of nobles. They were people who had heard whispers of the miracle healer, stories passed from one grateful mouth to another, and now they pressed in, hungry for a glimpse or a cure.
As soon as my carriage rolled into sight, the crowd’s hum swelled into a living thing—cheers and murmurs tangled together, then parted as the solar knights carved a path through the press of bodies. At the cathedral’s entrance, a makeshift stage waited: a few scattered chairs, a long table, a battered donation box at one end, and at the other, a cauldron so large it seemed to breathe, sending up clouds of steam and the scent of something hearty. All around, people clutched mismatched bowls and battered pots, drawn as much by the hope of a meal as by the promise of miracles.
Stepping down from the carriage, I was swallowed by the roar of voices—cheers cresting over anxious murmurs, the sound pressing in from every side. I hesitated, feet heavy, before catching sight of Klara waiting at the edge of the podium. Relief flickered through me, and I hurried over, clinging to her familiar presence amid the chaos.
“Hello, Cardinal Yuwen. Congratulations on your consistory; the robe really suits your holiness.”
“Please stop; you don’t have to be formal. Just tell me what is going on.”
“Ehm, okay,” said Klara, clearly uncomfortable addressing a cardinal casually. “Her Holiness, the pontiff, had the idea of showing your healing magic to the world. She expects you to heal on this podium where people can donate if they want, and then they can get a bowl of soup after treatment is done.”
So that was the plan—heal them all, right here, beneath the eyes of the city. I glanced back at the crowd, a restless ocean of faces stretching as far as I could see. Thousands waited, hope and desperation mingling in their eyes.
“But Klara, even I don’t have enough for all of them.”
“Don’t worry; most of them are just curious or are here with their families. Besides, Her Holiness has prepared for this. You don’t have to worry.”
But worry gnawed at me, heavy and persistent. I climbed the steps to the podium, only to retreat again, the height making me feel exposed—every eye fixed on me, every voice rising until I could barely hear my own thoughts. The noise pressed in, a living tide I feared would engulf me whole.
Klara settled beside me, her presence a small comfort. She reached beneath the table and produced a box, lifting out a handful of mana stones and pressing one into my palm. It was cool and jagged, a pale blue shard that caught the light in fractured spirals, almost beautiful in its imperfection. So this was their plan—feed me stones and watch me work until I dropped. Lucrezia would wring every last drop from me.
The solar knights formed a silent barrier, Elio taking his place beside me, a quiet sentinel over the donation box and my own trembling nerves. The first patients were simple—sniffles, a crooked leg, nothing that stirred the crowd. But when an old man, clothes threadbare and heavy with the scent of old sweat, dragged himself forward on a battered board, the air shifted. He had no legs, only hope. I easily grew them back for him, and he wept, tears carving clean lines through the grime on his cheeks. He couldn’t walk yet, so the knights lifted him gently and carried him straight to the cauldron. I doubted he would have left otherwise.
With every so-called miracle, the crowd grew more restless, hope turning sharp at the edges. People shoved and argued, desperate to be next, but the solar knights were unyielding, sending troublemakers to the back of the line. It did little to soothe the tension. I kept healing, faces blurring together as the line kept growing. The donation box filled and emptied, monks and nuns darted about, ladling out soup as fast as they could. The scent of cheesy leek and whatever meat they’d managed to find drifted over, making my stomach twist with hunger, reminding me of home, of earth.
Eventually, I caved and asked Klara for a bowl of soup. She brought it to me, and I ate in hurried bites between patients, the warmth settling in my belly. I caught a few surprised glances—after all, here I was, a cardinal, a so-called miracle worker, eating the same humble soup as everyone else.
By midday, someone called me a saint after I healed them. I waited for Klara or Elio to protest, to correct them, but neither seemed bothered. Maybe they even welcomed it. The word hung in the air, heavier than I expected.
Noon faded into dusk, and still the line stretched on, mana stones dwindling as hope clung stubbornly to the last light of day. Only when the sun finally slipped away did we stop. I’d lost track of how many lives I’d touched—faces blurred together, exhaustion settling deep in my bones. The word ‘saint’ echoed in my mind, unsettling. On Earth, people only named saints after death, when they could no longer disappoint anyone. Here, the title felt as much like a warning as a blessing. I hoped I wouldn’t wake tomorrow to hear that Lucrezia had made me a saint.
My head throbbed with the rush of too many diagnoses, too many hurried healings. By the time I returned to the Yuwen estate, Janus was waiting for me. I let myself collapse into his arms, sleep claiming me before I could even whisper goodnight.
