The floorboard creaked beneath the priest's weight. Gramm eyed the boy warily, watching him struggle to hang up his leather cloak. He jumped, the fabric catching the wooden knob by the door. He landed with a thud, the timber heaving out a groan and a shake. The child looked around, scanning the room with those emerald eyes of his. Gramm clicked his tongue, throwing another log into the warming hearth.

 "Before I let you sleep here, I have a few questions to ask." His hand hovered over the small flame. "First, why have you been following me?"

  The priest threw his hands up and shook his head. "Rest assured, ser! I have not been following you!"

 "You ran into me this morning, or will you lie about that?"

 "How would I lie about that when it's you who ran into me?" The priest put a hand on his chest. "It is a mere coincidence that our paths crossed!"

 The boy spoke with a playful tone. He took a seat at the table, his small body facing towards the warmth of the hearth.

 "Then... How about the square? That was also you, wasn't it?"

 "Yes, it was I. I do not deny that." He answered. "I was offering a prayer to the patron of this land."

 That earned a chuckle from Gramm. "Patron?" Mistwold has no patron gods or saints. Maybe a hundred years ago, when the old church ruins still stood, something watched over the town. When people still offered grain, wine, or whatever tithes the forgotten deity demanded. These days, no one visits that place anymore—it was out of the way, far from the main roads—and he knew none who still remember the name of the statue in the square. And only the old foundations of that church remained; the stones have long been harvested and reused by the people of Mistwold.

 But Gramm held his tongue. This was a first for him; he had never met a priest. He heard stories of how they communed with gods and blessed people and lands and crops. They prevented great calamities or brought them down upon kingdoms.  Their word blessed heroes and armies, banishing evil with a gesture. His uncle had met a few, he remembered. All he said about them was that either they were the vilest conmen or the most desperate fools. The boy looked like the latter, but he dared not utter such a disrespectful remark.

 "Then you decided to follow me home instead of renting a room at an inn." Gramm prodded the fire with a rod.

 "Another coi—" The boy paused, then sighed.  "No, it was not a coincidence."

 The fire crackled, and a log broke apart—finally, he'll speak the truth.

 "Fate. It was fate."

 His ears pricked at those words. "Fate? And how did fate lead you into my house?"

 He turned his head, meeting the emerald green of the boy's eyes. Perhaps he was wrong in his assessment; the boy spoke like those merchants peddling river stones, dressed like precious jewels, to people unaware. He watched him closely, waiting for the following words to come out of his mouth.

 "I was meant to go south, to Sothmark." The boy said. "But my God, my beloved Mistress, was a recent visitor here. Perhaps a task awaits me here."

 "Sothmark, I see..." Gramm nodded. He did not believe him.

 He did not know where those lands were on a map. He just nodded, pretending he knew what the boy meant. But what did he mean by his god being a visitor? Perhaps he meant in the past? Was the boy retracing some ancient pilgrimage? Gramm scratched his head. If there were still gods, his sinful thoughts of them being a pain in the ass would have turned him into a frog by now. And what kind of parents would let a boy as young as this travel the world? 

 "And what do you think that task is?" Gramm asked, genuinely curious about what his answer would be.

 "It is complicated. How do I explain this to..." The boy trailed off, his voice shifting into a soft murmur. "Well, to put it simply, I am a guide and witness."

 "... That doesn't help."

 Gramm shook his head, waiting for the water to boil. "If you're going to say I need guiding and that your 'god' is the way to some place, I'm going to kick you out."

 The boy laughed, not mockingly, but with genuine amusement. He snorted, holding his sides with his arms. 

 "Haha! Apologies! Everyone keeps saying that!" He squeaked out as he composed himself.

 "So... You're not here to peddle me some weird religion and sell me some carvings?"

 "Not at all, ser. All who live soon enter the embrace of my Mistress. I need not preach, sermon, or crusade to force some vague ideals upon the world." He said, his emerald eyes looking at some distant vision. "My task is simple. Guide the lost back, witness the moment my God welcomes them, and relay the words or commands if there are any."

 Gramm was getting tired of the word "God" being repeated over and over again. So he let his attention drift from the boy back to the pot. He walked over to a jar and took off the sticky cloth that covered its mouth. With a wooden ladle, he scooped the golden contents of the jar and added a generous scoop of honey to the boiling water. Some juniper flowers were also thrown in, along with dried berries. Finally, he took the pot off the fire and placed it on a wooden block on the table.

 "Grab yourself a cup over there and drink." Gramm pointed at the pile of wooden cups at the other end of the table. Clean or not, it was the boy's problem. 

 "Thank you, ser!" The boy smiled and bowed, then grabbed the cup nearest to him.

 He seemed to enjoy it, judging by the delighted expression on his face. Gramm reached for a cup as well, though it was not as clean as he hoped. Still, he poured some of the dark drink into it and took a careful sip. It tasted sweet, with notes of honey and the berries his uncle picked. There was a faint taste of the flower that danced at the tip of his tongue. The boy seemed to like it, but he did not. It was too sweet and was missing something. His uncle never taught him how to make this drink correctly.

 "It's missing mint." The boy said in between sips. "And you should steep the flowers some more. Oh! And also add some juniper berries too, not just the flowers."

 "I'll... I'll do that next time..." Gramm said, a bit irked. "This was my uncle's recipe. Or, how I remembered it."

 "That's what I just said. You're missing the mint."

 "... Excuse me?"

 Gramm put down his cup and stared at the boy in front of him. "That's not a nice joke. I was starting to like you, so don't make me mad."

 "I do not jest, good ser. Nor have I told any lies tonight." The boy put down his cup. "My Mistress visited your home, and now I see the task she left for me. Gramm Gardner, it matters not if you believe in my words or my God. What matters is my task. And my task is to witness your uncle pass on in peace."

 Gramm unsheathed the sword.

 "Get the fuck out of my house." He spoke, his words sharp and harsh. "Sleep in the fucking cold, for all I care."

  Pity and sadness were reflected in the boy's eyes as he looked upon him. Gramm slammed a fist against a wall, sending something crashing onto the floor. Poison welled in his throat, ready to be thrown and spat out as vile curses at the child. His fury burned hotter than the fire slowly dying behind him. 

 "How dare you? How dare you?! Do not use a dead person in this sick joke of yours, you fucking coldhearted son of a bitch." He shook in anger. "I don't care if your fucking 'mistress' is real or not. I don't care if you're looking for a free bed..." 

 He pointed the blade at the boy, who remained seated and still at his table.

 "But do not dare to use my dead uncle in your sick lies."

 "... Thank you for your time and hospitality."

The boy said softly before standing. He thought the boy was about to leave and disappear into the night. But with a quick grace to his movement, he fell to his knees, hands clasped and eyes closed. The impact must have hurt, but if it did, the boy did not show it. He spoke in a whisper, loud enough for Gramm to hear the words. 

 "Oh, Maiden, Last Light, Final Mercy, I do my duty as You command. As I do the Final Rites, I beg Thee, give this waiting one a final chance. If I am to be struck down in my duty, so be it. But allow Your waiting subject a chance to make peace before taking Thy hand."

 "What are you doing?!"

 He reached out to grab him, to throw him out the door and be done with this day. His hand clutched at the delicate fabric of his robes and held it tight in a fist. He will throw this child out, gods be damned if he hurt him. Gramm tensed, about to yank the boy to his feet and hurl him out if need be. 

 "Oi. Who told you to take that thing out?"

 He froze. His head darted, instinctively looking at the only corner of the house that the voice could've come from.

 "I thought you better than to harm a kid, didn't I?" 

 "Uncle!" Gramm cried. "How?! H—"

 Sitting in his usual seat, Ravann Gardner looked at him with tired eyes, but with lips curled into his stupid grin that everyone knew too well. His body glowed as if the silver of the moon reflected off of him. No, it was the moon's light. It simply passed through him, for his body was a mirage. Like a cruel trick of the light, the image of his uncle hovered in his seat, a phantom both of this world and the beyond. Still, he was here.

 His uncle was here.