The woman's eyes flew open with a muffled gasp.
The first second was pure instinct—she tried to sit up, but her body responded with treacherous slowness. Her legs still burned with a cold tingling sensation, as if rotten roots had grown beneath her skin and refused to leave. The hymn she tried to form caught in her throat, turning into a hoarse groan.
She was on a roof.
A dirty motel roof—broken tiles, a rusted chimney, the fog of the Tussock wrapping around everything like a shroud. And in front of her, sitting with his back against the wall, was a man watching her.
Hair black as spilled ink, slightly disheveled by the damp wind, falling over his forehead in uneven strands. Skin pale to the point of looking sick—not white, but grayish, as if the blood beneath had begun to rot slightly. Dirty gray eyes, the color of fog mixed with factory smoke, yet disturbingly clear, as if they could see straight through bone. Sharp features: high cheekbones, a defined jaw, a straight nose.
Handsome.
Absurdly handsome.
The kind of beauty that makes people look twice in the street… before realizing something about it is wrong.
And he was smiling.
A ridiculous, crooked smile, almost childish, as if he were enjoying a private joke no one else understood.
The woman remained still, breathing carefully. She recognized the disadvantage immediately: she was weak, her amulet nowhere in sight, corrupt poison still circulating through her veins, and a stranger who had dragged her here effortlessly.
She wasn't stupid.
She wouldn't scream or attempt to sing—yet.
But she wouldn't tremble either.
"…Who are you?" she asked, her voice hoarse but steady.
There was no fear in it.
Only pure annoyance.
"And why am I alive?"
Matt tilted his head, that absurd smile still glued to his lips. He took his time answering, as if savoring the moment.
He rose slowly, brushing some dust from his dark jacket. Beneath it, the edge of an old brown priest's robe was visible.
"Matt," he said with a lofty tone, almost regal, as if granting a favor. "Blessed of the Mother Earth. Temporary servant of the Withered Garden. The man who saved you from being devoured by shadows tonight."
His smile widened, ridiculous and proud, as though he had just declared himself Emperor of Loen.
The woman stared at him.
Strong. Sensible.
She didn't retreat. She simply evaluated him from head to toe—the scar faintly visible beneath his clothes along his side, the dangerous calm in his eyes.
"Blessed of the Mother Earth?" she repeated, her voice low but unwavering. "The fallen goddess? The one who eats souls and turns cities into rotting gardens?"
Matt let out a short laugh, almost cheerful.
"Exactly. The same one. The one who nourishes herself with what others discard. The one who—"
He stopped abruptly.
His smile froze.
For a second, his gray eyes lost focus.
He remembered Elara's words before he left:
Don't proselytize, Matt. Don't preach. Don't recruit. The Mother doesn't need missionaries. Only gardeners who know when to stay silent.
He cleared his throat, the lofty tone vanishing instantly. The ridiculous smile shrank into something smaller, more private.
"…Right. Forget the sermon part. I shouldn't do that. She made that very clear."
The woman watched him carefully. She didn't move. She didn't try to flee.
She simply nodded once, acknowledging the situation.
"I understand. Then… why did you save me, Blessed? Why didn't you let me die with the Ascetic?"
Matt shrugged, still standing above her, looking down with the same amoral calm that had become his natural state.
"I don't really care," he said. "But it didn't seem worth wasting without reason. You were shining. And this thing…"—he touched his side unconsciously, where the scar pulsed faintly—"…seems to think light can nourish too. At least for now."
He crouched down slowly until he was at her level, gray eyes locked onto hers.
The smile was no longer ridiculous.
Just cold.
"Besides… you have information. And I have questions. The Black Market beneath the Old Bridge, for example. Or how a Suppliant of Light ended up alone in East Borough fighting a Shadow dog."
The woman stayed silent for a second.
Then she spoke, firm and without the slightest hint of pleading.
"I'll cooperate. For now. But if you truly try to corrupt me…"—her eyes flashed with a faint but real golden glow—"…my light will burn you from the inside before your Mother can swallow me."
Matt smiled again.
This time without arrogance.
Just genuine, amoral amusement.
"Fair deal, little light."
The wind from the Tussock whistled between the roof tiles.
Matt watched her for a moment longer, as if deciding whether continuing the conversation was worth it—or if he should simply leave her there.
Finally he asked, with that same calm tone:
"What's your name?"
The woman hesitated for half a second, weighing whether giving even that much was dangerous.
Then she answered firmly:
"Lira. Of the Church of the Eternal Sun."
Matt repeated the name softly, as if tasting it.
"Lira… nice. And what is someone from the Church of the Eternal Sun doing in East Borough, Backlund? There's no Sun cathedral here. Not even a small temple. Just fog, rats, and people who sell their souls for a penny."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Did you come to hunt the Ascetic… or did you get lost?"
Lira let out a dry, humorless laugh.
"I didn't get lost. I was sent. Rumors said a group of heretics from the Secrets Suppliant Path were attempting a minor descent ritual near the river. The Church of the Sun doesn't have a strong presence in East Borough, but it does have eyes."
She shrugged faintly.
"They sent me alone because I'm… expendable. Sequence 8. Nothing important lost if things went wrong."
Matt raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious for the first time.
"Expendable? That's impressively clean cruelty. The Mother at least pretends all her children are useful."
Lira looked him straight in the eyes.
"And you… do you really think the Church of the Mother Earth will protect you when the orthodox churches decide to burn East Borough to the ground?"
Her voice hardened.
"Because they will. Sooner or later."
"A criminal," she added quietly, "is an enemy to everyone."
Matt shrugged again.
"I don't need to worry about that right now."
Then he stood abruptly.
The decision was already made.
"That's enough talking for tonight. The roof's getting cold and you still smell like corruption. We're leaving."
Before Lira could protest, Matt bent down, grabbed her around the waist like a sack of potatoes, and slung her over his shoulder with zero care.
The movement was rough—almost rude.
Her head dangled against his back, her black hair falling like a curtain.
"Hey—" Lira protested, her voice muffled but still firm. "I can walk!"
"Not right now," Matt replied without turning. "And I don't want you falling off the roof."
He descended the motel building with absolutely no caution.
He jumped onto the rusted drainage pipe, slid three meters downward with her bouncing against his back, and then dropped the rest of the way into the alley.
The landing was hard.
Lira groaned in pain.
Matt didn't even slow down.
The fog swallowed them both.
And somewhere inside Matt's chest—
the scar shaped like a withered leaf pulsed once.