Apostles' War

Auberge du Rosier, Lisieux – 2:17 AM

Elian sat on the wooden floor beside the bed, knees drawn to his chest, staring at the sigil burned into the back of his left hand.

It glowed faintly beneath the moonlight filtering through the lace curtain. A soft pulse — like a heartbeat not his own.

He turned his palm upward.

Nothing.

He tried again — focusing. Willing the Seraphblade to awaken, to respond, to shimmer into his grasp as it had for the others.

Nothing but silence.

"Please," he whispered, voice dry. "I'm one of them now, right? I'm supposed to be…"

His fingers curled.

"…supposed to be able to help."

The room around him was still, save for Enoch's quiet breathing across the second bed. Leon sat in a chair by the window, eyes closed, meditating in silence.

And Elian — the Apostle of Kindness, as they called him now — was empty-handed.

The relic hadn't come.

Not even once since he arrived in Eidalein.

Not during training. Not when he tried to spar. Not even when Minato taught him how to center his thoughts and direct his intent.

Just a name.

A title.

A mark on his skin.

"Kindness," he muttered bitterly. "As if that's enough to stop monsters from crawling through stained glass."

He thought back to that first night in Tagaytay — the screaming wind, the voices from the shadows, the weight in his chest that nearly made him stop breathing.

They said the Seraphblade would come when his heart was clear. When he understood the virtue that defined him.

But Elian didn't feel kind. He felt afraid. Small. Displaced.

He wasn't a warrior like Marcus.

Not serene like Minato.

Not brave like Talia.

Not wise like Leon.

Not devoted like Enoch.

He was a barista from Tagaytay who once thought demons were myths, and now he was expected to walk into a desecrated cathedral in the middle of France to face creatures that mimic saints and laugh in holy places.

Elian looked at the sigil again. His voice cracked.

"I don't want to be dead weight."

No answer. No glow. Just the slow throb of divine heat in his hand, reminding him he was chosen — even if he didn't understand why.

He laid his head against his knees, listening to the rain tapping the window glass.

"I'm not ready…"

But there was no time to wait.

At sunrise, they would walk through the cathedral doors.