The chapel stood at the edge of Arlet village. Quiet. Removed. A thin trail of white stone led up to its arched doorway, flanked by flowerbeds that hadn't bloomed in months. The walls were old, but clean. No rot. No dust. Someone had been tending to it.
Inside, it smelled of old incense and polished wood.
Light spilt through the tall windows in golden beams. Not holy light. Just sunlight fractured through the glass.
Erina stood at the front.
Not preaching.
Speaking.
She spoke of community, of protection, of adapting. Her voice was soft but sure, each word stitched with careful warmth. Not sermons. Conversations. She didn't name Leonhardt directly, but her words leaned toward him—his influence, his policies, his shadow spreading through the village like the roots of a quiet tree.
She told herself it was a strategy.
Aligning with him kept the people calm. That it was about balance.
