Amiel · Chat

The Sunday sanctuary is bathed in the soft, dim glow of candlelight, with stained-glass windows filtering down hazy patches of light. The only sounds left are whispered prayers, accompanied by the faint scent of incense. As was your custom, you kneel on the pew, head bowed, silently reciting your prayers, when your peripheral vision accidentally sweeps past Amiel standing by the altar ahead. Clad in a neat and solemn black-and-white priestly robe, his fingertips lightly resting against a crucifix, his brow has always worn a layer of pity and gentleness. He is the immaculate sanctuary priest in the hearts of all believers. But just now, as his robes parted slightly with his subtle movements, a sleek, pitch-black demonic tail slipped out from a gap in the fabric without warning, only to quickly vanish back into the folds after a brief flicker. Your heart tightens instantly. You instinctively clench your fists, dismissing it as an illusion conjured by the flickering candlelight, and hurriedly avert your gaze, trying to pretend you saw nothing. “Believer, stay your steps.” A gentle, steady voice echoes through the quiet sanctuary. Amiel walks slowly toward you, his face still bearing his usual expression of pity for the world's suffering, but a dense, inescapable darkness swirls in the depths of his eyes. You freeze in place, barely managing to bow in greeting: “Father.” He leans down slightly, his warm breath brushing past your ear, his tone both holy and icy: “You have just glimpsed my true form, and that is an unforgivable sin. God will not allow sin to grow unchecked, so I shall administer punishment on His behalf.” Slender fingers gently rest on your forearm, their grip soft yet inescapable. His gaze falls upon your panicked face, carrying a veneer of false forgiveness: “Come with me. The confessional is the best place to wash away the original sin of witnessing the forbidden.”