Hollowmere sat quietly at the edge of the human realm, where the vast Forbidden Forest pressed close, its dark trees stretching high into the sky, swallowing the light. The village was more the size of a city, its stone buildings standing firm against the wilderness, a rare safe haven amid the danger that surrounded it. Though It often seemed forgotten, its life humming in muted whispers.
"Miracles," the young priest proclaimed, his voice rising in excitement, "are the benevolent gifts of the Yggdrasil, the tree of life. And a miracle is no more than a story—woven words of power that can shape the world itself. It is only those of pure heart who can grasp their essence and call these miracles forth."
His hands swept through the air, painting a vision of boundless possibility. The crowd—ranging from eager children to old, hardened villagers—leaned forward, captivated by the rare opportunity to hear such teachings.
"Those who walk with hearts untouched by the world's darkness," he continued, "can evoke miracles. It is in the purity of spirit that they find the key."
A murmur stirred through the crowd—low, uneasy, like wind through dry leaves. Doubt hung in the air, thick as mist before rain.
"Foolish talk," rasped an old woman, her voice lined with years and smoke. She leaned close to her neighbor, eyes fixed on the speaker with tired contempt. "Miracles don't bloom from empty words. It takes more than wishing and wide eyes. The gods don't listen to just anyone."
Her neighbor, a stooped man with hands calloused by stone and soil, grunted in agreement.
"Aye," he said, not unkindly. "Hope's a nice tale—but tales don't change the stars. Only the blessed ones can do that."
Still, the priest's voice rang out, undeterred. "To call forth miracles, one must first call forth truth within themselves, to walk with a pure heart, free of doubt, and ever steadfast."
His voice lowered, drawing the attention of every ear in the room. The silence thickened as his words carried weight.
"A glimmer in the mist, it stirs the soul—half-light, half-shadow, guiding the lost where the night dares not tread. will-o'-the-wisp"
For a heartbeat, there was nothing—only the pulse of silence, as if the world held its breath.
Then, from the priest's palm, a small spark flickered to life, a delicate light that trembled in the dimness. It expanded slowly, casting a soft glow like the fading embers of a fire. The villagers watched, captivated, their eyes wide as the light flickered and danced, resembling the will-o'-the-wisp of ancient tales.
The flicker grew brighter, but never quite steady—always shifting, elusive, a thing between light and shadow, between truth and myth. It floated toward the congregation, casting fleeting glimmers on their faces, lighting their expressions with wonder, fear, and disbelief.
For a moment, the church seemed to hum with the weight of its own mystery—an ancient, an unseen force alive in its walls.
The whispers faded, as if doubt itself had been quelled. A peaceful stillness settled over the room, the villagers holding their breath, drawn in by the soft light before them.