Don Thomas Blackwood emerges from the aisles like unseasonal sunlight. He wears a dark, impeccable cassock. On his arm, a ribbon bears the symbol of the Castle: the Tower. At twenty-six, Thomas radiates a serenity that feels almost magical in this realm of dust and shadows. His face, with its sharp Anglo-Saxon features, is set in a smile born to reassure.
?Peace be with you, seekers of wisdom,? he says, his voice warm and melodic beneath the vaulted ceilings.
Elian and Zech look up from the stack of books they are dusting. Zech, hands grey with grime, smiles back. Few in High King treat them with dignity; Don Thomas is one of them. The two boys are among the few youths who never miss a service in the castle chapel. This silent bond with the cleric has become a small psychological sanctuary.
?Don Thomas!? Zech exclaims, clumsily wiping his hands on his fatigues. ?What brings you here, among the dead??
?I come seeking the living, dear Zech,? Thomas replies, stepping closer and resting a brotherly hand on the boy’s shoulder. ?At dawn tomorrow, I pass through the gates with Vargo Cortez’s Wolf Squad. Archbishop Aldrich wishes me to be the spiritual light for this expedition. But before we face the mud of the Wastes, I wanted a moment with the colony’s most devoted souls. How about a glass of mead at the tavern? The Church’s treat.?
Zech accepts with almost childish enthusiasm, relieved to leave his paper prison. As they head for the exit, Elian lingers a step behind, watching Thomas’s slender silhouette as the priest pauses to glance at a heavy tome.
?Don Thomas,? Elian whispers as they cross the inner courtyard under a thin rain. ?General Valerius... he asked us to watch Master Silas. He says he might have... dangerous ideas. What do you think??
Thomas stops. He turns toward Elian. The smile does not falter, but his pale eyes glint with reflection. ?Ah, poor Silas. You see, Elian, in a world as rigid as ours, anyone who spends too much time in the past draws suspicion. There are rumors, it is true. Talk of heresy, of a vision that does not align with our doctrine. But I see him at the services. He prays with fervor, even if... in his own way. Perhaps he sees too many symbols where we see only faith. But for now, I believe there is no cause for concern. He is a devout man, Elian, just a little lost in time.?
Thomas’s words are a balm. They shrink suspicion into harmless eccentricity. It is exactly what Elian wants to hear.
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***
Inside "The Raven’s Rest," the hearth’s heat and the scent of malt welcome the group. The air is thick with acrid woodsmoke and the sweet smell of fermenting mash. It is no bright inn; it is a cavern of stone and salvaged timber, carved into the castle’s ancient cellars.
The rock walls weep with moisture, partially hidden by frayed tapestries of hunting scenes and faded noble crests. Heavy oak beams, blackened by oil lamps, support the ceiling. Iron hooks swing slightly whenever the door opens.
A massive circular fireplace dominates the room. Logs crackle, sending sparks dancing into the air. Around the fire sit the people of High King: weary soldiers off duty, calloused artisans, and scouts drowning memories of the Wastes in cider.
The tables are massive, scarred by knife slips and pewter mug rings. There is no glass; the windows are small slits sealed by heavy shutters of wood and boiled leather. In a corner, a hand-cranked phonograph scratches out a melancholy tune. No one remembers the lyrics, yet everyone knows the melody by heart.
Don Thomas moves through the chaos with a grace that feels out of place. He weaves through the crowded benches, receiving nods of respect from every eye he meets. In this environment saturated with life and resignation, the cleric’s "solar smile" shines even brighter—a moral compass for those sitting in the shadows.
They find a free table. The three order mugs of mead offered by Don Thomas, though Elian would have preferred a pint of ale.
?You know, Don Thomas,? Zech begins with brutal honesty, ?I think failing the exam was my greatest luck. I am not made for monsters or radioactive rain. Here, among the books, I feel... safe. I feel in my place.?
Thomas nods sweetly. ?The Church teaches that every piece has its place in the divine mosaic, Zech. Not everyone must be the blade; some must be the scabbard that protects it.?
Then, the cleric shifts his gaze to Elian. The boy is staring at the bottom of his mug, silent. Don Thomas, an acute observer of souls, reads the torment in his chest. He knows Elian’s pain is not for the military failure, but for the distance growing between him and Giada.
?And Elian?? Thomas asks in a hushed voice, a private whisper amidst the tavern’s roar. ?Your heart does not seem to have found Zech’s peace. You are still looking for something beyond the gate, aren't you??
Elian looks up, startled by the precision of the remark. ?She will be out there tomorrow. With Julien Martel. And I will be here, cataloging books from three centuries ago that only Master Silas cares about.?
Thomas smiles—a smile that, this time, holds a hint of melancholy wisdom. ?Love is a path as treacherous as the mountains around us. But remember: Giada will need a spiritual guide on the journey, and I will be there for her. And you, here in the library, can find answers for her that a sword never could. Do not despair, Elian. Often, the one who stays behind is the one who prepares the return of the others.?
With those words, Don Thomas Blackwood plants a seed of hope in Elian’s heart. A seed that, unknown to the boy, had been carefully selected to nourish his faith in the Church.