The cracked lead purification basin rested upon the silver glass between Brother Ren and the Man Who Returned, its dull pewter soldered seams gleaming with a greasy, leaden sheen under the unlit vaults. In the damp catacombs of Oakhaven, that battered basin had caught the bloody sputum of three thousand dying weavers. It had held the vinegar-soaked sponges that wiped the foreheads of children whose skin was peeling away in black flakes. It had collected the tears of mothers whose prayers were ignored by the gold-trimmed choir of the High Basilica. It was an ugly, heavy, utilitarian thing, beaten from roofing scrap and patched with plumber’s lead, but to Brother Ren, it was the only holy altar that had ever truly mattered.
Brother Ren dropped to both knees before the vessel. His torn burlap habit pooled in the expanding puddle of dark blood leaking from his charred forearms. His breathing was a harsh, rattling scrape that whistled through raw, fluid-choked bronchi—the total body toll of Martyr’s Osmosis pulling the headsman’s causal blade into his own flesh. Yet his gaze remained steady, calm, and terrifyingly clear as he raised his trembling, scarred right hand above the cracked rim. ‘The First Basilica taught that grace is a golden light dropping from the clouds to crown the righteous,’ the Saint murmured. His voice gentle as fell leaves over wet slate. ‘They were wrong, Ren. Grace is not light. Grace is the willingness to sit in the dark with someone who is afraid, and…
