The dream returned.
Albert stood in the center of a burning village.
He ran. His legs were leaden, as if mired in thick mud. Every stride demanded the effort of dragging a hundred-kilo weight.
Ahead, near the village well, he saw her. A young woman, tangled blonde hair, torn clothing. Three men in black uniforms—mercenaries—surrounded her. They were laughing. The woman screamed.
"Stop!"
He ran faster. But the ground beneath him suddenly slickened with blood. Sticky. Crimson. Warm. His feet slid out from under him. He fell. His face pressed into the earth, and when he looked up, the woman was already still. Her eyes were open. Staring at him.
"Why didn't you come faster?"
"I WAS GOING TO SAVE YOU!"
He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. Only emptiness. The woman kept staring. Her eyes began to rot. Flesh sloughed from bone. Her skull emerged. And from behind that skeletal visage, another voice—
BOOM.
Albert jolted awake.
He sat on the edge of the bed, hands clenching the sheets, breath coming in ragged gasps as if he'd just sprinted a mile. His body was drenched in cold sweat. The warm, incense-scented guest chamber of Solisia Church.
Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. He forced his lungs to slow, an old trick. Focus on something real. The texture of the sheets beneath his fingers. The sweat on his back. The smell—
The stench of vomit.
Albert looked down. A puddle stained the floor beside the bed. The contents of his stomach, evacuated without permission. When? He couldn't even remember being sick.
He rose unsteadily. His knees felt weak. His head throbbed. He stumbled to the washbasin in the corner, grabbed the water pitcher, poured it over a cloth, and wiped his face. Cold water against his skin, washing away the sweat, washing away the remnants of the dream still clinging to him like cobwebs.
In the tarnished bronze mirror, he saw himself. Pallid face. Bloodshot eyes. Dark circles carved beneath them like fresh graves.
"You're insane," he whispered to his reflection. "Absolutely insane."
The reflection offered no reply. It only stared back with eyes just as hollow.
Albert washed his face once more, then turned to clean the mess on the floor. His hands trembled as he wiped away the stain. No servant could see this. No one could know. Weakness could kill him.
Finished. He sat back down on the edge of the bed. The hourglass in the corner marked three in the morning. Three hours still until dawn. Three hours before he had to face the High Priest and deliver his answer about page forty-seven.
Albert closed his eyes. Behind his lids, the woman still stared.
'Why didn't you come faster?'
"I'm sorry," he whispered into the darkness. "Maybe I was never fast enough to save anyone."
***
The meeting with the High Priest took place in the same chamber. Wood. Fire. Stone walls. The same faux austerity. The High Priest sat in his chair, wearing the same white robes, the same smile, the same pale blue eyes that had seen too much and never enough.
"Good morning, Albert," he greeted. "Did you sleep well?"
A lie would come easily. But Albert was too exhausted to fabricate.
"No, Your Eminence."
The High Priest raised an eyebrow. Not surprise. More like confirmation. "Nightmares?"
"Yes."
"Often?"
Albert didn't answer. He pulled his predecessor's journal from his robe pocket and placed it on the table. His movements were slow, deliberate. Not challenging, not submissive. Neutral.
The High Priest regarded the book for a moment, then returned his gaze to Albert. "You've read page forty-seven?"
"Yes."
"And?"
Albert drew a breath. His mind, which had been chaos the night before, was now back on its familiar track—cold, analytical.
"Your predecessor," he said, "was an honest man. He wrote about his doubts because he wanted to test his own faith, not because he wanted to abandon it. He wanted to know if what he did every day—giving blessings, selling indulgences, hearing confessions—was genuine good or mere trickery."
The High Priest nodded. "And your conclusion?"
"Page forty-seven shows the answer." Albert gestured toward the book. "He gave that woman the indulgence for free. Not because he believed the document possessed any magical power, but because he knew that widow needed something to hold onto. He gave what he could, within the limits he'd inherited."
"You think he was a benevolent fraud?"
"I think he was human." Albert met the High Priest's gaze. "Same as the rest of us."
Silence. The fireplace crackled. Wind whispered outside. The High Priest regarded him with an intensity that raised the hairs on Albert's neck.
"Do you believe in the Goddess, Albert?" he asked abruptly.
A direct question. No room for diplomacy.
Albert could lie. Could say yes with a solemn face, and the High Priest would probably accept it. But last night's nightmare had left him too weary for pretense. And somewhere in the most honest corner of his mind, he wanted to know what would happen if he spoke truth.
"I don't know," he said.
The High Priest showed no surprise. He'd likely anticipated this.
"Yet you're here. You'll undergo the rite."
"Because my mother wants me to. Because my family needs this recognition." Albert paused. "Forgive me if that sounds disrespectful."
The High Priest laughed. Not a warm laugh, but a short, bitter one—the sound of someone hearing an old joke that had long ceased being funny.
"You think you're the first?" he asked. "Out of a hundred nobles who undergo the rite here, perhaps ten genuinely believe. The rest come out of obligation, tradition, or family pressure. We know this. The Goddess knows this. Yet the rite continues."
"Then... what's the point?"
The High Priest leaned forward. His eyes were no longer those of a politician, a ruler. For the first time, Albert glimpsed something else there. Weariness. The same weariness he felt himself.
"The rite isn't for the Goddess, Albert. The rite is for people." He gestured toward the journal on the table. "My predecessor gave that widow an indulgence, even though he doubted whether it meant anything in the Goddess's eyes. But it meant something to the widow. It gave her peace. It let her sleep at night."
He gazed at Albert. "Do you sleep peacefully at night, Albert?"
The question struck like a blade.
Albert didn't answer. He didn't need to. His pallid face, his bloodshot eyes, the dark circles beneath them—all had already spoken.
The High Priest nodded. "I'm not asking if you believe in the Goddess. I'm asking if you're willing, for the next few hours, to let this rite become real for you. Not because you need it, but because... perhaps you need something. And this is what we have to offer."
Albert looked down at his hands. They were steady now, but he knew how quickly they could tremble. Knew how quickly the dreams could return.
"And if, after the rite, I still don't believe?"
The High Priest smiled. It was tired, sad, infinitely patient.
"Then you'll be like most of us who've been doing this for decades. But perhaps—" he tapped the journal gently, "—perhaps you'll understand your predecessor a little better. Perhaps you'll understand why he wrote what he wrote, and why he kept going anyway."
Albert was silent. Inside his head, the woman from his dream still stared.
'Why didn't you come faster?'
"Very well," Albert said. His voice was hoarse. "I'll undergo the rite."
The High Priest's smile widened. This time, it wasn't the smile of a politician or a ruler. Just the smile of a tired old man, who probably had his own dreams at night.
"Good. Now go prepare. The brothers will be waiting for you in the chapter house."
***
The chapter house of Solisia Church wasn't as vast as the narthex, but it was more intimate. The walls were adorned with old paintings—saints' faces with golden halos that had peeled away in places. In the center stood a small altar with a statue of the Goddess Verena—a woman with spread wings, outstretched hands, closed eyes.
Three brothers waited for him. Two old, one young. Their robes were simple brown, coarse cloth, rope belts at their waists. They bowed as Albert entered.
"My son," the eldest brother greeted, his voice weak but clear. "We will guide you through the preparations. Please, sit."
Albert sat on the wooden bench provided. The wood was hard, uncomfortable. Probably intentional.
"The Rite of Purification," the brother continued, "is a symbolic journey. You will die as a child, be reborn as an adult. Before the Goddess, before witnesses, and before yourself."
He explained the stages. The symbols. The prayers to be recited. The movements to be performed. Albert listened with half an ear. His mind wandered—to various unpleasant memories.
"My son." The young brother's voice cut through his reverie. "Are you listening?"
Albert looked at him. The man was perhaps in his twenties, with a sincere face and clear blue eyes that hadn't yet witnessed too much of the world's corruption. His gaze was full of concern, genuinely caring.
Sorry, Albert thought. You won't find what you're looking for in me.
"Forgive me," he said aloud. "Could you repeat the part about the vows?"
The young brother repeated it patiently. Albert nodded at the appropriate moments.
Three hours later, the rite began.
Albert stood in the center of Solisia Church's main hall. Empty. No congregation, no curious nobles. Only the High Priest at the altar, the three brothers at his side, and his family—Baron Friedrich and Lady Elara—in the front pew.
The air was cold. The candles in the great candelabra flickered from drafts seeping through the imperfectly sealed doors. Above, the statue of the Goddess Verena gazed down with closed stone eyes.
Albert wore a white robe—coarse linen, uncomfortable against his skin. His feet were bare on the cold marble floor. In his hands, he held a small lit candle.
The High Priest began chanting. Liturgical language, the ancient tongue used only at Solisia Church. Albert didn't understand the words, but the cadence rose and fell in repetitive patterns, hypnotic, like waves.
Father, Mother, he thought suddenly, and he didn't know if he meant Friedrich and Elara, or the elderly couple in another world who might still be waiting for their son to come home. I'm here... doing something I don't believe in. Forgive me.
The High Priest's chanting ceased. Now it was Albert's turn.
He knelt. His knees met the marble floor. Cold seeped into bone. He bowed his head, as instructed.
"The Confession," the young brother whispered from the side.
Albert opened his mouth. The words had been memorized, but they felt foreign on his tongue.
"I confess before the Goddess Verena, before these witnesses, before myself, that I am a flawed mortal. I have sinned in thought, word, and deed. I have failed to be a light to others. I have..." He paused.
The next words were lost my way. But what surfaced in his mind was a different image entirely. A rifle in his hands. A target in his scope. A finger on the trigger. Faces he'd never seen clearly, only shadows crumpling as bullets struck.
Was that a sin? Killing people he didn't know, on orders he didn't trust, in countries that weren't his—did that count?
"I have lost my way in the darkness," he continued, his voice trembling slightly.
The High Priest nodded. "The Goddess hears your confession. Arise."
Albert rose. His knees ached. The cold still crept through him.
Next came the immersion. A small pool, no larger than a bathtub, had been prepared beside the altar. The water was clear, cold, with white rose petals floating on the surface.
The rite of death and rebirth. Enter as a child, emerge as an adult. A peculiar ritual.
Albert stared at the water. His own reflection stared back—pallid face, red-rimmed eyes.
"Enter," the High Priest whispered.
Albert removed the white robe. His body was lean, lightly muscled, marked with minor scars from training. But no one was watching. Only the stone Goddess with her closed eyes.
He stepped into the pool.
Cold. Cold like the muddy water in Ukrainian trenches.
Albert submerged himself to the neck. The water reached his chin. Rose petals clung to his shoulders. He closed his eyes.
"In the Goddess's name, die to your past," the High Priest's voice echoed.
Albert drew a breath.
"Be reborn to your future."
He submerged completely.
The world went silent. Only the water in his ears, the heartbeat in his head. Dark. Cold. Still. Uncomfortable.
For a few seconds, Albert thought of nothing. No drone strikes, no explosions, no Dmytro, no woman from his dreams. Just water. Just silence. It felt like dying once more—and that wasn't so bad, was it?
Then he surfaced.
Air hit his lungs like fire. He coughed, sputtered, water streaming from his hair, his face, his lashes. He stood in the pool, shivering, naked, drenched.
The brothers wrapped him in a new robe. White, like the old one, but different. The fabric was softer. Warmer. On the right shoulder, a small embroidery—the sun of Solisia Church.
"The Goddess blesses you, Albert vin Götterbaum," the High Priest intoned. "You are reborn. Stand as an adult before Her."
Albert stood. His legs were still unsteady. His teeth still chattered. But he stood.
Lady Elara wept with emotion in the front pew. Baron Friedrich patted his shoulder, face taut—perhaps proud, perhaps moved, perhaps both.
Albert gazed at the statue of the Goddess Verena. Those stone eyes were still closed. Still serene. Still offering no answers to anything.
He didn't believe the Goddess had heard him.
And yet... he found himself strangely intrigued by these ancient rituals. These old teachings. There was something here—something he couldn't quite name.