The warm sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows of the church room, casting colorful little rainbows across the cozy beds and the pile of half-eaten fruit platters nobody ever finished. The group lounged about like semi-retired warriors, still wearing bits of armor, mismatched socks, and the occasional bandage from yesterday's "totally normal" quest involving a rampaging enchanted scarecrow.
Alaric was upside down on his bed, legs resting up the wall, lazily spinning his sword in one hand. "Hey. Guys. Quick question."
Renna looked up from trying to peel an orange with her dagger. "Hmm?"
"…Does the old priest even have a name?"
A long silence fell upon the room.
Cael slowly turned away from his conspiracy board which now included red string connecting 'talking frogs' and 'bread pricing inflation'. "Wait…"
Lys blinked from her spot at the window, where she was feeding pigeons crumbs. "You know, I don't think he's ever introduced himself."
"Seriously?" Thorne scoffed from the corner while dramatically polishing his lance. "You're telling me we've lived under the same holy roof with that dusty scroll of a man for two whole months, and not one of you thought to ask?"
"You didn't either," Renna pointed out.
"I assumed you peasants were on top of such peasant matters."
Cael's eye twitched. "Why would you assume we—okay, no, wait. This is important. Dangerously important. What if that's part of a magical contract? What if not knowing his name puts us under a spell of obedience? What if his identity is a cursed concept that—"
"Cael," Lys interrupted gently, tossing a grape into his mouth like she was training a feral animal. "Breathe."
He chewed in silence. "Fine," he mumbled. "But this is still highly suspicious."
Alaric flopped sideways onto the floor. "I just called him 'Father-Something' every time I needed help."
Renna snapped her fingers. "Same! I called him 'Father Oops-I-Broke-Something' last week."
"I just bow and leave the room dramatically," Thorne said proudly. "Names are for the weak."
"…Well, it's gone too far now," Lys said, standing up. "We can't ask anymore. That would be—weird."
Alaric gasped. "It would be so weird! It's been two months!"
"What if he thinks we forgot his name?" Renna added.
"What if he never told us and is waiting to see how long we'll pretend we know?" Cael asked, already spiraling again.
They all sat there, looking at each other in a dawning panic.
"Okay," Lys clapped her hands once. "New plan: We sneak around and look for something with his name on it."
"A nameplate," Cael whispered.
"A letter!" Alaric said.
"A wanted poster," Renna suggested cheerfully.
"I bet he has a drawer labeled 'Father ___,'" Thorne said, dead serious.
And just like that, a new quest was born—not of slimes, nor demons, nor world-ending prophecy—but of awkward social etiquette, too much time spent together, and the terrifying realization that they'd bonded with a man for two months without ever knowing if his name was something as simple as Greg.
The group crept down the quiet hallway like the worst covert unit ever assembled.
Renna crouched low, rolling from shadow to shadow like she thought she was in a spy movie. Alaric tiptoed behind her, humming his own sneaky background music. Thorne stomped confidently at full height, completely misunderstanding the concept of stealth. Cael was pressed against the wall, muttering "This is a terrible idea, this is how people die, this is how people get cursed," and Lys trailed at the back, facepalming every five seconds.
"I can't believe we're breaking into a priest's room for a name," she whispered.
"It's a holy operation," Alaric said, giving her a thumbs-up.
"Operation Divine Nomenclature," Renna added dramatically.
"I already regret everything," Cael muttered.
When they reached the old priest's door—large, wooden, and etched with suspiciously glowy symbols—everyone paused.
"Do we knock?" Renna asked.
"We're sneaking," Cael hissed.
"Oh. Right."
Thorne stepped forward and reached for the handle.
Cael flailed. "WAIT! It could be trapped!"
"It's a bedroom door, Cael," Thorne groaned, rolling his eyes. "He's not a final boss."
Thorne opened the door anyway.
There was a loud creak. Everyone winced and froze in place.
…Nothing happened.
"Clear!" Alaric whispered way too loudly.
They poured inside like clowns spilling from a carriage.
The priest's room was simple but weirdly pristine. A desk stacked with old scrolls, a bed so stiff it looked like it had never been used, and a bookshelf filled with titles like 'Advanced Theology and You!', 'Demons 101: Smite First, Ask Later', and 'How to Raise Heroes Without Losing Your Sanity.'
Lys walked over to the desk and carefully opened a drawer. "Ugh. Just prayer beads and weirdly folded socks."
"Check under the bed!" Renna said, already halfway underneath it.
Thorne opened the wardrobe. "Still no name. But man, this guy owns nothing but beige robes."
Alaric tried rifling through a stack of letters on the shelf, reading aloud: "To the Most Esteemed Shepherd of Light... yeah, nope. No name."
Cael, meanwhile, was poking at a half-burned candle. "What if this is enchanted to erase his name from all documents? What if we're dealing with a being beyond comprehension? A fragment of divinity made flesh—"
The search was in full chaos mode.
Renna was halfway up a bookshelf, clawing through dusty scrolls like a determined squirrel. Alaric had taken up residence under the priest's bed again, tapping along the floorboards like he was decoding ancient treasure. Thorne was knocking on furniture like he expected one of them to confess. Lys calmly flipped through an old journal, lips pursed in concentration. Cael paced in circles like a detective who had just discovered his third imaginary suspect.
"What if his name's not written anywhere?" Cael hissed, eyes darting to every corner. "What if he erased it from history? What if he is the concept of anonymity?!"
"Please stop," Lys muttered, not even looking up. "You're going to give yourself an identity crisis."
Then—click.
The doorknob turned.
Every single person froze.
The room fell into immediate chaos.
"HIDE!" Renna shriek-whispered.
Lys dove behind a curtain like a stage actor avoiding a bad review.
Renna squeezed between bookshelf shelves like a human folder.
Alaric flung open the wardrobe and slipped in like a spy.
Thorne, without hesitation, belly-flopped under the bed.
Cael, in full panic, threw himself into a large trunk at the end of the bed and pulled the lid shut with a muffled clunk.
The door creaked open.
Footsteps echoed inside the room. Calm. Even.
A hum drifted in—low, tuneless, and somehow unsettling.
The Old Priest entered.
He strolled inside with a scroll tucked under one arm and a mug of something steaming in the other hand. He moved with the grace of someone who owned the place, because, well, he did.
Inside the wardrobe, Alaric held his breath as incense tickled his nose.
Behind the curtain, Lys regretted leg day.
Under the bed, Thorne silently questioned every life decision that led him here.
Inside the trunk, Cael whispered to himself, "If I die in here, I want someone to publish my notes. Even the conspiracy ones."
The trunk lid creaked open.
The Old Priest looked down.
Cael looked up.
They locked eyes.
"...Hi," Cael croaked. "Nice trunk. Antique?"
The Old Priest stared, unblinking.
"This is where I keep my socks," he said.
Cael blinked. "Very divine socks. Holy, even."
"Out."
"Already leaving!"
The rest of the group began to shuffle out one by one, trying their best to look apologetic, dignified, and not like complete idiots.
The Old Priest set down his scroll, sat at his desk, and sipped his tea with the slow, exhausted calm of someone who had lived through far too much.
"I assume you were looking for my name?" he said after a long pause.
Everyone nodded guiltily.
"You could've just asked."
Renna raised a hand. "We thought it'd be more respectful not to—"
"You climbed on my bookshelf."
"Respectfully!"
The priest raised one grayed eyebrow. "And?"
The group leaned forward.
He stared at them for an impossibly long time.
"…No."
And with that, he took another long sip of his tea.
Cael collapsed back onto the floor in dramatic despair. "He really is a mystery wrapped in socks."
Later That Night...
The church hall had gone silent.
No running.
No shouting.
No explosions.
Just peace.
Inside his candle-lit room, the old priest gently closed the door behind him with a long, exhausted sigh—the kind of sigh that only a man responsible for five world-saving disasters in progress could make.
He shuffled over to a small cabinet near his desk. His hand hovered just a moment, then he opened the door with quiet reverence.
Inside sat a single ornate bottle, shimmering faintly in the candlelight.
It glowed faint gold, like trapped sunlight, and was labeled with delicate holy script that read,
"Sanctified Vintage 482 — For Divine Emergencies Only."
The priest didn't hesitate.
He uncorked the bottle with a practiced flick.
Poured a generous glass.
Sat down.
And drank.
Glug. Glug. Glug.
He didn't stop until the glass was empty.
He poured another. And another.
"Five heroes," he muttered into the rim of the chalice.
He stared ahead at the wall like he could see the future etched into the stone.
"…We're all going to die."
A dramatic pause.
Then he raised the glass again. "But at least the wine's holy."
Just as he took another sip—BOOM!
A small rumble shook the church walls.
The priest blinked slowly. "I swear if they found the bell tower..."
He stood up, took the wine bottle with him, and trudged toward the door with the air of a man heading to his own funeral.
"May the gods have mercy on this land... because those five definitely won't."
The candle burned low. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, soft and solemn.
The priest sat back down in his chair, the chalice still half-full in his hand. The holy wine shimmered faintly in the light, as if it too remembered things best left forgotten.
He stared into it, then spoke aloud—not loudly, but as though someone might be listening from beyond the veil of the world.
"Why them, Coe?"
His voice was quiet. No anger, no demand—just weary acceptance.
"They're not heroes," he murmured. "Not yet. They're chaotic, messy... and gods help us, dangerously curious."
He paused. Then chuckled softly. "But I suppose that's the point, isn't it? You never choose the perfect ones. You choose the ones who still can change."
He looked toward the small altar in the corner of his room—one dedicated to Coe, god of duality, identity, and reflection. Its mirror shimmered gently, catching a flicker of light from the candle.
"Why did you send the prophecy, though?" he asked it. His eyes didn't blink.
"You will not see the end of their journey."
He remembered those words clearly. They hadn't come in a booming voice or grand vision. No, they had come in the quiet of the night, whispered through prayer, laced with finality.
He sipped the wine again.
"I didn't even flinch," he said, mostly to himself. "No tears. No regret. Just… acceptance."
A silence settled. Then he added, almost like an afterthought,
"But it'll be harder for them, won't it?"
He leaned back and rested the cup against his chest.
"They're young. They'll grow. And when they do, they'll look back."
He stared up at the ceiling now, eyes glossed with something too old to be grief.
"If they knew me—if they knew my name—they'd hold on to it. They'd carry it with them like a burden. Like a ghost."
A long breath.
"That's why I won't tell them. It's not for my sake. It's for theirs."
He turned his head slightly toward the door, as if he could somehow see through it—to the group just down the hall.
"They need to step forward, not look back."
And for the first time that night, the priest's voice fell to a whisper. A prayer not for himself, but for the world.
"For their sake… let me be just 'the old priest.'"
The candle flickered. The wine glowed faintly. And the silence returned.
The priest poured himself another half-cup of holy wine, though he hardly needed more. It wasn't to numb anything—no, not anymore. It was a ritual now. A comfort in knowing that he still had breath in his lungs and duty in his hands.
He looked again to the altar, to the faintly glowing mirror that shimmered in Coe's divine presence.
"The Tenets," he murmured.
His eyes traced the carvings etched along the base of the mirror—ancient words, sacred and sharp, as if even time dared not erode them.
"Know Thy Reflection."
He repeated it, softly. "Know the version you show... and the one you hide."
He gave a bitter smile. "They've only begun to see themselves. They don't even know what they're reflecting yet."
His fingers ran slowly along the rim of the chalice.
"Balance is Strength."
The wine shimmered. "Emotion and logic. Light and dark. Action and stillness."
He let out a tired breath. "Gods help them—they're all action. Barely a thought between them before they jump off the edge."
"Do Not Fear the Echo."
He grew quiet here.
The Echo—the shadow of contradiction in one's soul. The part that doubts, that hesitates, that questions truth even when it stands in front of you.
"It's evil to embrace the Echo. It twists. It tempts. And they..." He hesitated. "They all carry echoes. Loud ones. I can hear it in how they laugh. How they argue. How they run."
"Expose False Mirrors."
The priest looked up, meeting his own eyes in the altar mirror. He looked tired. So very tired.
"They'll have to look past beauty. Past strength. Past charm. They'll need to see each other for what they truly are. And when they do..." He shook his head. "Will they even want to stay together?"
"Change Is Sacred."
A long silence passed.
"That's the one that frightens me most."
He turned the chalice in his hands, watching the wine ripple.
"Because they will change. They'll be broken. Hurt. Rebuilt. And when that happens—when they look back—they might not recognize who they were before."
He finally set the wine down, hands trembling just enough to make a soft clink against the wood.
"I don't know if they'll make it through. These Tenets... they're not rules. They're tests."
He stood slowly, walking to the window. Outside, the stars blinked lazily over the silver-washed rooftops of Koneu.
"I fear for them," he admitted to the night. "Not because they aren't capable… but because they are."
He closed his eyes.
"And that means they'll be asked to prove it."
The priest stayed by the window, the chalice still faintly warm in his hand. A breeze crept in, gentle and cold, brushing against the back of his robes like the ghost of a hand once familiar.
He whispered, not to the room—but to the silence.
"…Thank you, Coe."
The mirror behind him shimmered faintly. No voice replied. Coe never spoke aloud. But His presence… it was always there—folded between reflections, humming through the quiet spaces of the world.
"Thank you," the priest said again, louder this time. "For erasing it. For unmaking it."
He turned, looking at the holy mirror.
"My name... not even I remember it anymore."
His hand touched his chest, over where his name once sat in his soul like a quiet ember. Now, there was only the warmth of devotion.
"You erased it from paper, stone, whisper, and memory. From the mouths of angels and the echoes of dreams. Even time can't recall it."
He looked away, his voice thinning with awe. "Not even the gods beside you could've managed that. But you did. With one breath, you unwrote me."
There was no sorrow in his voice.
Only peace.
"Because if they knew me... if they held onto something like a name, it would make it harder when I'm gone."
He chuckled once, tired. "And I will be gone. I've seen it. The prophecy wasn't vague. It wasn't wrapped in riddles like your usual riddles, Coe. You gave it to me clearly."
A hand to the mirror.
"You will not walk this world when they face the breaking."
He closed his eyes.
"And so, I've given everything I can while I still remain. Guidance. Shelter. Fruit and warm beds. What little wisdom I could offer between their chaos."
His hand dropped.
"But I'll leave no weight behind when I go. No memory to anchor them. No tears to hold them back."
A long pause.
"…Only the Tenets."
The mirror pulsed—softly. Almost like it mourned with him.
"They don't know it yet," the priest whispered. "But this world will need them. Not just as swords and spells. Not just as heroes."
He took a step back from the mirror and smiled faintly.
"They'll have to become more than what they were summoned as."
Another breeze passed. This one warmer.
"Thank you, Coe," he said once more, voice steady now. "For making sure I was never part of their chain."
He turned away.
"And thank you… for trusting them with the world."