It was smaller than she expected. No larger than a pigeon’s egg, faceted like a garnet, and pulsing with a light that was not light but thirst . Sasha had grown up on the stories: how the stone was the congealed tear of a dying god, how it whispered promises to the weak, how the last man to touch it had peeled off his own skin and walked into the sea.
The Inquisitor smiled without warmth. “Then you will be a very short-lived saint.”
Sasha turned. A young man leaned against the cellar stairs, arms crossed. He was handsome in a ruinous way—scarred knuckles, pale eyes, a scar that pulled his left eyebrow into a permanent sneer. He wore the patchwork cloak of a traveling gambler. Saint Sasha and the Scarlet Demon-s Stone -v1.0...
“And if I fail?”
“You’re a fool, girl,” said a voice behind her. It was smaller than she expected
Sasha looked down at her relic—the Rib. It was a sliver of calcified light, useless for miracles. She had tried. She had laid hands on the sick, blessed the fields, whispered the old prayers until her throat was raw. Nothing happened. The Church had made her a saint because they needed a symbol, not a savior.
“I’m planning to break the Seals.” The Inquisitor smiled without warmth
The stranger stared. Then, slowly, he extended his scarred hand.
