The door clicked shut, leaving Julian and Lucius in the quietness of their quarters.

They couldn’t have asked for more, actually.

Julian helped Lucius out of his boots and sat him down at the table where a tray of food—mostly pale fruits, light broth, and white bread—had already been placed.

"Master," Lucius said, his voice small as he picked at a piece of bread. "Is every day going to be like this? Just walking and reading?"

Julian sat across from him, pouring a glass of water. "For the most part, yes. It’s better this way, Lucius. The quieter we are, the faster the time will pass."

...

The next morning, the light hit the marble walls with such intensity that Julian woke up with a sharp headache. He missed the muted, grey dawns of the North, where the sun had to fight through the mist and the pines.

As Elian had promised, the knock on the door wasn’t the Purifier’s rhythmic, measured strike. It was a soft, hesitant tapping.

Julian opened the door to find a young boy, a priest in training standing there. The boy couldn’t have been older than fourteen. He wore a simple white robe, his head wrap keeping in whatever color his hair was away from prying eyes, and kept his eyes fixed strictly on Julian’s boots.

He did not dare look the saint in the eye.

"Saint Julian," the acolyte whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "I am to... to escort you to the plaza. The communal prayer begins when the sun is high in the sky."

"Of course. Give us just a moment," Julian replied.

He turned back to Lucius. Julian knelt down and helped the boy into his dark blue tunic, smoothing out the fabric.

"Remember what we discussed," Julian said softly. "Be polite, stay close, and if anyone asks you a question you don’t want to answer, just look at me."

Lucius nodded, slipping his hand into Julian’s.

As they stepped out of the East Spire, the sheer scale of the gathering in the plaza took Julian’s breath away.

Thousands of people—citizens, pilgrims, and low-ranking clergy—were kneeling on the marble floor. From above, it looked like a sea of white silk. The only break in the color was the path cleared for them, leading toward the central fountain where the high priests were gathered.

The air was thick with the scent of incense and the low, droning sound of a collective chant. It wasn’t like the songs of the North, which were filled with melody and life; this was a singular, monotonous tone that seemed to vibrate in the very stones beneath their feet.

The acolyte led them toward a raised platform. Julian noticed Elian standing near the Pope, his silver hair catching the light. Elian caught Julian’s eye and offered that same, polite smile, but he didn’t move from his position.

"Wait here, Saint," the acolyte said, gesturing to a spot near the front.

As Julian stood there, he felt the weight of thousands of eyes. The chanting didn’t stop, but the volume seemed to drop as people noticed the man in a midnight blue robe, and the boy with sun-kissed skin.

He stood tall, his hand resting protectively on Lucius’s shoulder. He was a scholar, a diplomat, and—against his will—a Saint. He would play the part, but he wouldn’t let them see him blink.

Suddenly, the chanting cut off. The silence that followed was so absolute that it was ringing.

Pope Clement XII stepped forward, his white robes trailing behind him like a cloud. He didn’t look at the crowd; he looked directly at Julian.

"People of the Light," the Pope’s voice rang out, amplified by the architecture of the plaza. "Today, we are joined by the Saint of the Viremount Empire. He has come to understand our ways, just as we seek to understand the gift he carries."

Yes, he had come to learn their ways. And Julian wished that for the following days of the two months he had to stay here, there would be no incidents.

If it was peaceful, the two months would move by in a flash.

And thankfully, there were no incidents after that. He joined the morning prayers and sermons, though all he heard all the time were talks about purity and endurance, and then in the afternoons he went to the archive where he had classes with Lucius. He didn’t see those grey-robed men anymore, and he decided it was none of his business. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

And then on certain occasions, he would run into Castor.

The boy was fun to talk to and he felt like the only real thing in this city.

Then, at night, he and Lucius would write letters about how their day went and keep them so they can mail them all to Alaric at the end of the week.

"...and also, I made a friend. He’s a young boy and he’s funny. I feel much more relaxed when I talk to him. Lucius likes him too."

Julian was finishing his letter, and he glanced at Lucius, who was already asleep and drooling over his drawing book. He had already written his letter, and Julian picked it up to see what was in it.

It was scribbles of a child telling his father how much he missed him and how this place felt so boring. At the end, he also mentioned Castor so this made Julian see nothing wrong when he himself mentioned Castor.

Little did he know that the mention of another guy making Julian smile, whether he was a younger guy, made Alaric’s blood boil when he read it.

There he was, a couple of thousand kilometers away from his lover, and over there, some random boy was making Julian laugh and making him feel at ease. His Julian.

He did not care if it was a young boy. It... infuriated him all the same.

Julian sealed the letters and then blew out the candle before carrying Lucius to the bed.

Then, he tucked him in and they fell asleep.

But by the next day, this pace and normalcy were beginning to choke them.

It was especially in the aspect of their meals.

The church likes to preach about purity and how the boys should be disciplined. And so, they don’t fall into the temptation of the flesh; there were a lot of prohibitions when it came to meals.

No eating of meat or fish. No drinking of wine or alcohol. And thus, the food was always so tasteless and very simple.

So since they arrived, they’ve only eaten pale fruits, light broth, and white bread.

By the fifth day, Julian found himself staring at a slice of white bread as if it were a personal enemy. He was a scholar who had lived off simple meals before he joined the Duke’s table, but this was a whole different level of simple.

This was intentional blandness—a diet designed to make one forget the body existed at all.

Lucius was even worse. The boy was currently staring at his broth as if he hoped a piece of chicken might miraculously materialize at the bottom.

"Master," Lucius whispered, his voice sounding thin. "The bread tastes like nothing today. Even the water tastes... white."

Julian sighed, pushing his own plate away. His stomach let out a treacherous, hollow growl that echoed in the quiet room. Discipline was one thing, but this was malnutrition masked as holiness.

"I know, Lucius. I’ll see if I can find something else. Maybe there’s a different kitchen for guests that we missed."