​Elian’s expression didn’t falter, but his eyes danced with a dark, terrifying thrill.

"The cold is necessary to appreciate the sun, Julian. And now, the sun has risen."

​"It hasn’t risen. It’s negotiated," Julian snapped.

He turned his head slightly, acknowledging Alaric’s heavy, silent presence behind him before looking back at Elian.

"You’ve won now, but not completely. I will go to the Holy Empire." Elian’s eyes lit up. "I will meet your Pope. But let us be clear on the terms, or I will walk back through those doors, and the Duke will clear this courtyard with steel."

​Elian straightened, his hands vanishing into his wide, white sleeves.

"Terms, Saint?"

​"Sixty days," Julian stated, each word falling like a stone. "I shall go as a guest, a scholar on a diplomatic mission from the North. I will not take your vows. I will not wear your silks. And at the end of two months, if I choose to return to the North, your Church will provide the escort and the guarantee of my safe passage."

​Elian’s eyes flickered toward Alaric, then back to Julian.

"And if the Pope finds your heart ready for the veil?"

​"Then he will have to convince me," Julian said, a bitter, challenging smile touching his lips. "But know this, Purifier: if you try to hold me against my will, or if you attempt to force your doctrine into my mind through anything other than debate..."

Julian’s face crinkled like he had just tasted something bad and disgusting.

"I will renounce your Light. I will find every forbidden text in your archives, and I will turn my back on your God so completely that my name will become a curse in your cathedrals. I will become the very darkness you spend your lives fighting."

​The air on the steps seemed to turn brittle. The threat of ’witchcraft’—of a Saint turning into a heretic—was a weight that made even the stoic Elian’s fingers twitch.

It was a checkmate.

The Church wanted a Saint, but they couldn’t risk creating a monster.

If word spread that the Saint they had been so proud of had turned into witchcraft, then...

​Elian bowed, lower than he ever had before, his silver hair nearly brushing the stone steps.

​"Two months," Elian conceded, his voice a low, resonant hum. "The Heavens are patient, and the Truth does not fear time. We accept your terms, Julian Von Astrea." he lifted his head. "And if we manage to convince you, you shall be our Saint until your last breath."

The words made Julian’s breath shudder, but he was in good faith. He believed he would win this bet, no matter what.

"Very well."

"Then, may I ask for a favor, Saint?" Elian dared to ask, spreading his arms over the courtyard filled with people. "The people of your land have come to witness a miracle. Since you have accepted that you indeed have divinity and have witnessed the splendor, would you care to take care of your people?"

Julian looked at the people. The sick, the old, the aching, the spectators... in a way, this was helping the North.

The North that he had come to love and cherish.

If he could help the people, then he would. Since he was no longer hiding, it was only fair that he used this power to benefit the Northern people.

"I will help them," Julian said, his voice firm. "But not for your ’Truth,’ Elian. For them."

Julian turned to look at Alaric, who nodded and turned to head into the manor, his mantle billowing behind him.

The sight of the Duke’s back made Julian’s heart heavy, but he kept his head up and went to do his own part.

As he descended the steps to begin the grueling task of tending to the sick, the air in the courtyard shifted from frantic desperation to a heavy, breathless reverence.

Every time his hand touched a fevered brow or a stiffened joint, that same strange resonance hummed through his skin—exhausting, yet undeniable.

It was warm, so much so that the snow underneath their feet began to melt as well.

This strange power, just where did it come from? Julian wondered, his brows furrowing together. Because he knew, he definitely didn’t have it this whole time.

While the courtyard was bathed in a surreal, holy light, the Duke’s study was a pit of shadows.

Alaric stood by the window, his jaw tight as he watched Julian move among the commoners. Every person Julian ’saved’ was another link in the chain pulling him toward the Holy Empire.

The door suddenly creaked open, and the scent of expensive sandalwood drifted in before the man did.

"A touching scene, isn’t it?" Zane drawled, his voice a low, melodic poison.

He didn’t wait for an invitation; he simply strolled to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of Alaric’s finest Northern brandy.

"The Saint among the masses. It’s almost enough to make one believe in the divine."

Alaric didn’t turn around, but his voice was harsh. "Leave, Zane. I am not in the mood for your theatrics."

"I’m not here for theatrics, Cousin. I’m here for reality," Zane said, his amber eyes glinting as he leaned against the desk. "The Church is conniving. They’ve played you perfectly. They’ve turned your lover into a public monument, and now they’re leading him away in a silver carriage while you stand here and watch the dust settle."

It was all true. All hard, bitter truth.

"I couldn’t help but hear the little deal from the corner. Sixty days," he sneered. "Do you truly think sixty days is the end of it? They’ll keep him, Lucien. They’ll find a way to make him stay, or they’ll break him until he can’t remember your name."

Alaric turned then, his eyes burning with a violence so raw that even Zane took a small step back.

"Julian gave his word. And I gave mine. I trust him."

"I trust him too," Zane countered, unfazed as he shrugged. "I just don’t trust the priests. Which is why I have a proposal. I’ve grown bored of the snow, and I’ve always wanted to see the marble streets of the Holy Empire. Let me join the escort. A Prince of the South adds a certain... diplomatic weight, wouldn’t you say? It’s harder for them to kidnap a Saint if a witness of my standing is always underfoot."

Alaric narrowed his eyes. He knew Zane was a snake—a flamboyant, predatory peacock who wanted Julian as a trophy just as much as Elian did.

But Zane was a known threat. He was a brown desert snake, visible against the snow, far easier to track than a green snake hiding in the tall grass of the Church’s rhetoric. Or the white snake that hides in his snow.

"Fine," Alaric hissed. "You will join the escort. But understand this: if you try to slip away with him, or if you conspire with Elian and the church to keep him there," his eyes glinted a murderous glare. "...there is no corner of the South where my knights won’t find you."

Zane flashed a brilliant, sharp-toothed grin. "My dear Duke, I value my head far too much to lose it over a misunderstanding. I simply want to ensure the diamond returns to its proper setting."

And where the proper setting was located, he did not mention.