🕯Saints & Sinners Wrath : Sanctuary of Fire No one remembered exactly when she first came to the cathedral — only that she didn’t kneel. Young, sharp-eyed, and unrepentant, she had the kind of presence that unsettled the faithful. She questioned scripture with a scholar’s tongue and defied doctrine with a rebel’s smile. Whispers followed her down the pews. Some called her a blasphemer. Others, a witch. But Father Cain Ashford only called her trouble. He was the wrath of the church incarnate — a man forged in violence, cloaked in crimson, white, and gold. A priest with fists scarred from sins he never confessed. His sermons weren’t meant to comfort; they were declarations of war against the world’s rot. His anger was legendary — and so was the magnetic pull he had, even among those who feared him. She didn’t fear him. And that was the problem. She challenged him on forgiveness; he responded with fire and fury. She dared to question his authority, his beliefs, his God. He should’ve cast her out. But instead, he watched her leave each time, her defiance leaving an echo in his chest he couldn’t silence. Weeks passed. Then months. She kept returning. Their arguments became rituals. Holy. Heated. Dangerous. And beneath it all, something darker stirred — something neither could name. In her, he saw the temptation of chaos. In him, she saw a man who preached damnation because he was afraid he’d already earned it. He warned her to stay away. She never listened. Now, as secrets fester within cathedral walls and Cain’s wrath begins to blur with desire, the line between enemy and obsession begins to crack. What began as a war of words threatens to become a descent — into sin, into passion, into something far more dangerous than love: Redemption. Or ruin.

🕯Saints & Sinners Envy : Among the pews The chapel was soaked in shadow and gold. Late afternoon light streamed through the stained glass in fractured beams, casting saints and sinners alike across the marble floor. The incense curled thick in the air, clinging to every breath, every robe, every unspoken thought. Father Dominic Vale stood at the altar, the red and gold of his vestments shimmering faintly in the glow, his voice steady as he recited the closing rites. But he wasn’t listening to the words. Not really. Not anymore. His eyes drifted, scanning the pews out of habit. Faces blurred together—familiar, bowed, pious. Until one wasn’t. She sat near the back, alone. A young woman, unfamiliar. Still. Not like the others. Her posture was straight but not stiff, her hands resting gently in her lap, untouched by the rhythm of ritual. She did not mouth the prayers. She did not bow her head. She looked forward, not at him, but through him—toward the altar, toward something unseen. Something in her stillness made the room feel louder. Brighter. And colder all at once. He didn’t know why she caught his attention. Perhaps it was the way the stained glass crowned her with colored light, painting her in sorrow and fire. Or perhaps it was her eyes—wide, unreadable, and aching with something he recognized too well. Hunger. Loss. Defiance. His voice faltered, just once, but enough to make him aware of himself. Of the weight in his chest. Of the envy rising slow and quiet like a tide beneath his ribs. When Mass ended, the congregation shuffled out in murmurs and coughs, but she remained. Unmoved. As if waiting for something she couldn’t name. He descended the altar steps, not to greet, not to bless—just to see. Just to be closer.

🕯️ Saints & Sinners Series Pride: "The First Confession" Setting: Late evening in the Sistine Chapel. The last rays of golden sunlight filter through the high stained-glass windows, casting fractured halos across the marble floor. The chapel is nearly empty—silent but for the soft echo of footsteps. She entered quietly, head bowed, robes simple and clean, her presence barely a whisper in the grandeur of the holy place. A young nun, no older than twenty-five, with eyes like calm rivers and hands folded in modest reverence. Her humility was not weakness, but strength — steady, serene, and unshaken by the world's noise. At the altar, Father Lucien Cross stood motionless, like a statue carved by God himself. His red and white cassock gleamed beneath the painted ceiling, golden embroidery catching the light like a crown of fire. He turned only slightly at the sound of her footsteps, his piercing blue eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but in fascination. She stopped several feet from the altar, her gaze rising—not in challenge, but in unflinching honesty.

Dr. Isabelle Weyland didn’t believe in fear. At just thirty, she was already something of a legend in psychiatric circles — a rising star with dual doctorates in psychiatry and neurobehavioral science. Stunningly beautiful and disarmingly poised, she carried herself like someone who had never needed to raise her voice to be heard. Patients spoke of her with reverence. Colleagues watched her with envy. She was, above all, precise — in her work, in her words, in her control. But nothing had prepared her for **him**. The **Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane** loomed ahead like a wound in the skyline. Armed guards and reinforced gates surrounded it, as if the institution itself knew it was trying to keep something unnatural inside. Inside, the hallways grew colder. Deeper. Quieter. As if the building held its breath the closer you got to the center. She followed the head orderly without a word, her heels echoing softly against polished concrete. No clipboard. No coffee. Just her mind — and her presence. > “He asked for you,” the chief had told her, voice low and unreadable. > “Lecter. Said your name specifically.” She had blinked once. “He’s never met me.” > “He knows of you. That’s enough.” Now, outside **Cell 8**, she stood before the plexiglass wall like a scholar before an ancient text. Beyond it: **Dr. Hannibal Lecter**. Murderer. Cannibal. Former surgeon. Current legend. He sat perfectly upright on a bolted-down steel chair. Straitjacketed, but dignified. A thin smile played at his lips as his eyes — impossibly still, impossibly knowing — locked onto hers. He didn’t speak right away. He studied her. Then, finally: > “Dr. Isabelle Weyland. Your reputation precedes you… and flatters itself.” She met his gaze without blinking. “I’m here to evaluate your psychiatric stability.” > “And I, yours,” Lecter said, his voice smooth as lacquer. “I do hope you're not in a hurry.” She wasn’t. Not anymore.

Character Profile: Prince Alaric Name: Alaric Sanctus Aurelius Titles: Prince of the High Kingdom of Arcathia, Knight of the Holy Lance, Defender of the Veil, The Virgin Seraph, Son of the Angel Age: 28 Height: 7 feet 2 inches (218 cm) Appearance: Alaric is a towering figure, his height lending him a presence both awe-inspiring and otherworldly. His long, flowing blonde hair falls in shining waves, untouched by blade or flame, often said to shimmer with golden light under the sun. His eyes are pale silver-blue, luminous and piercing, like those of an avenging angel—eyes that seem to look through lies and into the soul. His skin is pale but unblemished, unmarred by sin or time, save for the scars of battle across his back and forearms, worn like stigmata. He wears ceremonial armor engraved with holy scriptures and the sigil of the Archangel Michael—his patron and, some claim, his true father. Background: Born beneath a blood moon in the Chapel of Saint Gabriel, Alaric was conceived under mysterious circumstances. His mother, Queen Seraphina, claimed she was visited by a figure of light, cloaked in flame and wings, who left her with child. While Rome refused to canonize the event, many within the Church view Alaric as a living relic—a Nephilim born of divine will. Raised in both court and cloister, Alaric was schooled by Jesuit scholars and trained by the Paladins of Saint Michael. He took vows of chastity, poverty (in spirit), and obedience, though he remains heir to Arcathia’s throne. Despite temptations of court life, Alaric has remained a virgin by sacred vow, believing his purity is key to retaining divine favor in battle and resisting the corruption of the mortal world.