Priest John left with a complicated yet resolute expression. Before leaving, he asked nothing, and Agatha offered no further explanation.
Now Agatha was once again alone in the prayer chamber—the bright lights struggled against the almost tangible darkness beyond the windows, several cold flames danced on the candlestick before the holy icon, a little smoke still rose from the extinguished brazier, and the full-length mirror nearby reflected her fragmented body.
Agatha turned and approached Bartok's icon. She raised her head, her black-cloth-covered eyes "gazing" for a long time at the deity draped in night. The icon looked as it always had, yet in her eyes, the towering statue was already riddled with cracks, like a pile of debris that should have collapsed long ago but remained superficially intact only through some invisible force.
She sensed the presence within the Grand Cathedral—more and more traces of the dead.
The "foundation" of this world was gradually cooling and dying. Now, almost all living people were slowly "shifting" toward the state of the dead. Those who had died without realizing it moved throughout the city-state, and the same was true within the Church. John was dead, having died with a single breath during yesterday's noon prayer. Mother Superior Laura was dead as well, having died in some faint dream—yet they still faithfully carried out their duties in the Grand Cathedral, just like all the others.
A hazy layer of flame suddenly surged within the nearby mirror. The mirror's surface turned black amid the fire, and then a figure gradually became clear within it.
Agatha turned her head and discovered that the figure in the mirror was not Captain Duncan, but Tyrion.
"My father constructed this channel for me, to establish contact between those blessed by his flames," Tyrion said first. "Lady Agatha, how