Chapter 115 The Priest

Chapter 115 The Priest
Seraph’s POV

There’s no statue in my honor by the town square, not even a tombstone with my name on it. There's no acknowledgment, nothing that shows gratitude—or even the faintest pretense of gratefulness for the sacrifice I made. Nothing.

And my father was the chief!

The priest stood directly in my path in his flowing black attire.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

The wind moved lightly through the widened street, carrying the faint scent of sun-warmed stone and fresh timber. The priest looked older.
Although he didn’t appear weakened, just aged: brows completely grey, fine lines at the corners of his eyes, a little more silver at his temples. But his posture remained the same—straight-backed, composed.

His gaze met mine fully.

“Good day, Priest,” I said as kindly as I could. He regarded me for a moment, then smiled faintly.

“Seraph,” he said warmly. “You look well.”
Well. Not returned from the dead. Just… well.

I studied his face carefully, searching for something—discomfort, recognition, even guilt for what he had done. There was none.

“You don’t look surprised to see me,” I said evenly, attempting a casual laugh, which failed miserably.

His head tilted slightly, almost amused.
“Surprised? No. I always believed you would return.”

I made a face at him, then blinked a few times as his words slipped under my skin.

“Return,” I repeated lightly. “Return from where?” I asked, doing that horrible, hollow laugh again and immediately regretting it.

A soft breath left him, almost a quiet chuckle.
“From wherever it is you wandered,” he replied. “You and Riko were always reckless beyond reason.”

I felt a chill run through my arms. What the hell? The words felt wrong—misplaced. Like he was telling the wrong story with complete confidence.

I watched his face closely. There was no mockery, no manipulation. Just calm certainty, as though he were simply stating facts.

“I remember,” I said carefully, “you standing over me that night.”

Something flickered across his brow. He looked genuinely confused, then made a face that seemed to say, Poor, confused child.

“We have always been praying for your safety, child,” he said gently. “You speak of it as though it were something grim.”

My stomach tightened.

The memory rose uninvited—the chanting, the binding sensation, the air pressing against my lungs like it wanted me gone. My protection?

“It’s such a shame, Riko…” He looked me in the eye and shook his head slowly. “Seraph, you both didn’t deserve what you went through. That boy was a good young man, full of potential. What a tragedy.”

His words rearranged themselves in my head and refused to fit. For a brief moment, I questioned myself.

Did I misunderstand?

No. No, I remember.

I remember the chains. I remember the spell. I remember—

A villager passed behind him and slowed slightly when they noticed me.

“Good afternoon, Seraph,” the woman said politely, as though I had simply returned from a long trip.

“Good afternoon,” I answered automatically.
The priest observed the exchange with mild satisfaction.

“You’ve been missed,” he said.

A strange knot of irritation settled in my stomach. The street felt wider suddenly. Too open. Too exposed. The sky above stretched clear and indifferent, and I had the strangest sensation that I was standing in the wrong version of my own life.

“You look unchanged,” he added after a moment. “Time has been kind to you.”
My pulse thudded in my throat.

I had been gone for four months. Not enough time for buildings to look different. For streets to feel unfamiliar. For children to grow taller.
Unless I was misremembering.

Unless—
No.

He stepped slightly to the side, as if preparing to leave.

“It is good to have you back,” he said calmly. “Your father will be relieved.”
Something in his tone softened.

“He took your disappearance harder than most.”
Disappearance.

“I didn’t disappear,” I said. I remembered standing in the center of the square. I knew everything they did to me. I didn’t just leave.

And now they acted as though they had no clue? I didn’t even know what the appropriate reaction should be. My throat felt dry.

The priest gave me one last measured look, then grinned sympathetically.

“You should go see your father,” he told me, then turned and continued down the street as though nothing in this exchange had been unusual.

As though I had simply come home.
Disappearance.

The word echoed again.
If I disappeared…
Then why do I remember being sacrificed?