The Templars watched Alexander with steady eyes, tracking his every move as he walked beside his father. He felt a faint unease. He still didn’t understand what he’d done to earn stares like that.
William led him toward a church with black walls, its dark stone drinking in the noon light instead of reflecting it. Bells rang endlessly overhead.
Inside, monks scrambled in every direction. Their plain gray robes flew behind them, worry etched across their pale faces, loose papers scattering with every hurried step.
William grabbed a young monk by the arm — shaved on top, gray strands along the sides, his face still carrying the freshness of youth despite his obvious panic.
"Where’s the priest?"
The monk answered quickly:
"In his chambers... the bells rang. He’s been born, William."
William said nothing. He kept walking, Alexander trailing behind him like a shadow.
The church was vast inside, its high domed ceilings swallowing the echo of footsteps, but the side corridors were narrow, barely wide enough for two men to pass side by side, its stone walls covered in faded paintings of saints Alexander didn’t recognize.
William stopped in front of a door and knocked gently.
"Father Priest, it’s William."
A hoarse, elderly voice answered:
"Come in, my son."
William entered, bowing his head in respect. Alexander simply stood back and watched.
The room was small, its shelves heavy with worn leather-bound books, a single candle casting a trembling light. Behind the desk sat an ancient man, his face carved with deep wrinkles like dry ravines, a long white beard reaching his chest, and sunken eyes that still gleamed with a sharpness the years hadn’t dulled.
The priest greeted them with a tired smile, an old book open before him, his thin fingers still stained with ink.
"I heard the bells, Father."
"Yes, yes... they rang in the west and south too. We’re searching for the one they rang for, just now."
William stood silent, then took hold of his son and pulled him forward, before looking at the priest steadily.
"No need to search... he’s right here."
The priest looked at William, then at Alexander.
"But William, he’s your son... it’s impossible for him to be the Great Priest."
Alexander stood there, understanding none of it, content to just follow the exchange between them.
"Believe me, Father... he killed a witch with his own left hand, just now. Before ever receiving his Blessing."
The priest rose and began pacing slowly around the room, his long robe dragging behind him across the stone floor.
"Even if that’s true... your family carries the Evolution Blessing. It’s impossible for anyone of your bloodline to be a Great Priest."
"Father, my own father wasn’t one either... you know that. He held the Strength Blessing. And we still don’t know which Blessing Alexander carries yet... believe me, Father, I saw the exact glow described in that very book you’re reading."
The priest had nothing to say to that.
"Are there any witnesses besides you, William?"
"Yes... a witch’s body. Well — her ashes."
The priest said:
"Even you are capable of killing with your left hand... your son Daron is one of the most dangerous left-hand users alive, perhaps the most dangerous of all."
"Why don’t you understand, Father? We gained our left-hand strength after receiving our Blessings. Alexander is different."
The priest sat down wearily, the wooden bones of his chair groaning under his weight, and turned toward the uneasy Alexander.
"Give me your hand, my son."
(And why exactly would I give my hand to this old man? No idea what he might do with it.)
Alexander stood and said:
"My father’s telling the truth. Why do you doubt him? I don’t know what either of you are talking about or what it means, but I’m certain my father is right."
Then he added:
"You should have seen that witch disappear from existence the moment I touched her."
William said:
"No need for that, son... just give the priest your hand."
Alexander held out his hand reluctantly. The priest took it in fingers as cold and dry as the pages of his old books, and began feeling along it in silence.
"I never said I doubted your father, boy... I simply don’t wish for there to be a Great Priest from our own city."
The priest ran his fingers over Alexander’s hand, murmuring a few words Alexander couldn’t understand, then closed his eyes and traced a cross onto his palm.
"There’s power in this hand, indeed... great power. Far more than a young man of this age, in this body, should be able to bear."
Alexander pulled his hand back quickly.
"That’s exactly what my father’s been telling you."
The priest picked up his book and began pacing between them slowly, silent for a moment.
"Even so, I’m not certain... I need to know your Blessing."
"Fine, find out now."
"That’s not possible... you’ll need to enter the competition."
The father refused outright. His son would never take part in that competition — not with that hand.
He knew exactly how dangerous it was; one reckless touch could end a young man’s life there.
But the priest insisted: the only way to determine this boy’s Blessing was for him to compete, and win against at least two opponents.
The father held his ground.
Alexander, meanwhile, was thinking of something else entirely — that he might be one of the strongest beings in this world. That touch on the witch’s body had given him a feeling he’d never known before, something almost divine, a mixture of power and rage.
The idea that he might be something everyone was waiting for, that the priest himself feared his very appearance — that alone was enough to ignite in him a desire to become that Great Priest.
"I’m competing."
The father seized his left hand tightly.
"This hand, boy... it could kill people."
Alexander shot back angrily:
"Didn’t we already do that, back at that castle? Didn’t we watch men get their heads cut off? They were only defending their home."
"What are you saying, boy? They were heathens, worshipping idols and gods that don’t exist... killing them was a duty, so their beliefs wouldn’t spread. But now, in that competition, you could kill souls just like you, of your own faith."
His father’s words sounded like meaningless nonsense to him. Those wars meant nothing to him. The competition was the only thing that mattered to him now.
"Aren’t you listening to what the priest is saying? It’s the only way... I want to know my Blessing. Some god gave me this ability, and I’m not going to hide it away."
He said it without believing in that god at all; the words were just something that might convince his father.
"Then why did you bring me to the priest in the first place? Why bring me here just to tell him I might be a Great Priest, if you’re going to refuse to let us find out?"
The priest said:
"My son... your father speaks a great deal of truth. Even though the only way to activate the Blessing is to fight in that competition... being a Great Priest won’t make you revered here, especially not in this region. Danger will follow you everywhere."
None of that mattered to Alexander. He wanted power. He needed it. He wanted people to look at him the way that witch had, in her final minutes.
"Alexander... would you really sacrifice people’s lives for this?"
"I won’t sacrifice anyone... I’ll wear a leather glove over my hand. I’ll keep it hidden."
The father fell silent before his son’s insistence. Deep down, he wanted to know the truth too.
The priest said:
"We’ll keep this quiet... no need for much talk about it, even after the competition."
Alexander smiled.
He felt like he was taking a step forward. Maybe two.
(From now on... my fate’s power belongs to this world.)