Not carved in stone, not whispered by prophets, but printed on cheap, laminated cardstock and tucked into the breast pocket of every acolyte of the Order of the Unfurled Truth. It was called the Compendium of Small Correctnesses , and it was, by all accounts, a masterpiece of misery.
Matthias blinked. “Father, it’s dark. The reliquary is unlit. I’ll break my neck on the marble.” Not carved in stone, not whispered by prophets,
Aldric stood there for a long moment. The candles guttered again. Somewhere, in the dusty dark of his own mind, the old god Unwitnessed and Exact yawned and turned over, uninterested. No thunder. No earthquake. Just the soft, terrifying sound of a man unfolding a laminated card and tearing it, once, down the middle. “Father, it’s dark
And Father Aldric, for the first time in forty years, sneezed—loudly, freely, at no particular time at all. And the world, stubborn and beautiful and utterly indifferent, continued to spin. The candles guttered again