Sylia, the Dark & Light Saint

"Those like me must pay tributes," Mathias went on. "In our own blood, or the blood of those who have sinned against certain Gods. It is the fate of the Sainted—or the Pre-Sainted—Bloodling Knights."

He smiled faintly, almost as if acknowledging something he couldn't change.

"You're a sharp one. I give you that," he added to Syn. "The one you met earlier—that was the other Soul I share this body with."

Juran blinked. Even Dio, for all his brooding silence, looked visibly shaken now.

"And to answer your other questions," Mathias continued, his tone quiet but unwavering, "I was projecting more from this one—this imperfect body. It took a toll on this envelope."

He pressed two fingers to his temple briefly, then let them fall.

"I am recuperating now. Thanks to the Gods' grace. But I had to project far more than usual to find those the Gods would gladly receive as tributes."

His voice grew firmer—not louder, but with a dark edge of conviction.

"Now, do not stare at me as if it is so unusual."

He looked directly at Syn again.

"What do you think your mother is doing right now, if not the same? Recalling thousands of corruption-tainted souls. Sending them to extinction—far more than I could ever manage."

He paused, letting the weight of that settle.

"That might be millions… within the next decade."

No one spoke.

"The Gods are cleaning house," Mathias said, voice low, distant. "They've grown tired. Certain places fell to rot. Their former Gods abandoned them. Now the Purity Wars have begun."

His expression changed again—less amused, more grim.

"I'm not better than she is," he admitted. "I belong to the Absolution and Absolute Blood Churches. I am to send several of my siblings—and my relatives—to Oblivion."

Syn gasped quietly.

"Be glad," Mathias said, "that you must not do the same. That task will likely fall to others. Or your mother will see it through alone."

He folded his hands and leaned back.

"As formal representatives of our Soul Birth Churches," he concluded, "we are bound to make sure corruption does not spread under the blood we're born to."

Juran's stomach turned.

The stew tasted like ash now.

This Mathias was strange. He was certain he had never spoken to him before—perhaps he had been hiding.

Juran needed to alert his friend at once. Something about this one unsettled him. He did not know why, but the feeling was strong. This Mathias seemed bitter, as if he no longer took any pleasure in life. He was different from all the other Pieces of Mathias he had encountered so far.

Mathias smiled faintly as he lifted a shot of whiskey, holding it up with casual grace before emptying it in one smooth motion.

He exhaled slowly, eyes half-lidded, voice edged with something between amusement and disdain.

"This is a good night," he said. "We are surrounded by worms and bugs."

He didn't need to gesture. The glance he threw at Dio and Juran as he said it was enough.

Juran didn't respond. Neither did Dio. They just watched him—Juran with grim wariness, Dio with something closer to quiet fury and fear.

Mathias poured himself another glass.

Still smiling, he turned his attention back to Syn, glass raised in mock invitation.

"You may ask your questions, girl," he said, pointing at her with the lip of the shot glass. "Tonight's your lucky evening. I've put the nuisance to half-sleep, so there won't be much interference."

He downed the second shot, then set the glass down with delicate precision.

"I am in good mood," he added, lips curling. "So go ahead. I shall answer as truthfully as one trained in the arts of deceit could answer."

Syn grimaced. The expression twisted her features for just a moment, then settled into a frown. She glanced toward Seron, and he gave her a look that mirrored hers exactly—tight-lipped, narrowed eyes, the kind of expression the siblings shared when recognizing a con artist at the table.

The man was taunting them.

He had just admitted he might lie to them. Or worse—deceive them while telling the truth.

And even when he gave a straight answer, it now felt impossible to know if it was fact, or some carefully selected shade of it.

Mathias leaned back, relaxed, watching them like a wolf who had grown too bored to chase but not yet too full to bite.

Syn lowered her gaze, staring shyly down at her hands.

"I'm good, sir," she murmured, her voice quiet but clear.

Juran turned slightly in his chair, jaw tightening. "I might have questions I need answers to, Mathias."

Mathias turned his head and looked at him as though he had just offered to wrestle a God.

His expression was a portrait of insulted disbelief.

"I was speaking to the Saint Candidate," he said coldly. "You stand too low for me to give you the same courtesy."

Then, with the casual cruelty of a butcher cleaning his blade, he added, "I might have to revise your memories of the night anyway. Yours and Dio's. You might access some in time of need."

Juran flushed, his face darkening with humiliation. He looked down, the exhaustion pressing in at the corners of his posture like a tide too strong to resist.

But before the silence could settle again, Syn raised her head.

"Please allow him some questions," she said softly, "as if they were mine, sir."

Juran blinked, surprised. When he looked at her, there was a quiet awe in his face.

He smiled, small and warm, humbled in that moment by the strength of the daughter he was still just beginning to understand.

Mathias rolled his eyes, lifting them toward the unseen heavens above the ceiling.

It was a long, theatrical gesture—like a prophet inconvenienced by mortal distractions.

Seron looked away and let out a chuckle he barely managed to contain. His shoulders shook, and he made no effort to hide the grin breaking across his face.

He clearly did not think this was going to end well.

Syn turned on him with a glare so sharp it could have sliced parchment. Her mouth was clamped shut, but her eyes did the speaking.

Do not make it worse.

Seron just smiled harder, eyes twinkling with both mischief and fatalism.

Mathias finally turned to Syn again, his arms folding across his chest in that slow, deliberate way that made it feel like a sentence had just been passed.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Fine," he said, his voice like a blade sheathed in velvet. "I shall answer your unspoken questions—but only those. You may ask the other Mathias those other questions."

He waved his hand toward her as if dismissing some invisible version of himself still lingering nearby.

Syn looked puzzled. Her brows furrowed, uncertain. But then she turned to her brother.

Seron just nodded, like this kind of cryptic double-speak had long since stopped surprising him.

Mathias reclined slightly in his seat and let out a breath—not tired, but precise, as if preparing for ritual.

"First of all," he said, "I shall do you a boon and answer your father's first unspoken question—since the Gods tell me it's important."

Juran stiffened. His mouth opened slightly, unsure if he had even thought of a question yet.

Mathias glanced toward him, then waved a hand as if brushing aside something insignificant.

"I own forty percent of this establishment," he said, tone dry. "So, it's not surprising your father didn't get the room when I did, despite his wee Count title that seems to make him arrogant."

Juran stared at him, stunned.

"You—what?"

But Mathias was already reaching for the wine this time, not even sparing Juran a second glance.

Mathias swirled the wine in his glass once, then looked toward Syn and Seron with the same composed authority.

"Your mother also holds shares here," he said evenly. "Which is likely why she proposed this location. It's under the Earthsylian Church's protection, so it's safer to speak here… but not completely safe."

He glanced toward a far corner of the room—too deliberately.

"We have spying worms and bugs tonight," he added. "Some I'll have to deal with personally."

Juran's hand instinctively brushed the hilt of the dagger at his hip.

Mathias continued without pause.

"Now," he said, "as for your earlier request, Seron—yes, you may use this place to craft your Magic Sygils, in carefully marked and approved areas. We have teleporting circles established throughout the foundation."

He lifted his chin slightly. "One of them connects to my brother Matteos' uncle. A Sainted Knight Duke from the Earthsylian Church. The man has always been kind and generous to us. He may help if the need arises."

Seron's eyes lit with interest. "Thanks. I can just teleport us from here to Juran's place, then. I can go to other places anyway thanks to my gifts."

Mathias turned to him with a small, patient smile. "You mistake me, my boy."

He tapped a finger against the table lightly.

"The Magic Sygil doesn't lead to a mundane location. It's bound to a Sub-Dimensional Enclave maintained by the Earthsylian Church. A sacred space where he resides at times. You may need to take your siblings there for protection."

Seron's smile faded into stillness.

"You wouldn't be able to access it without him—or me," Mathias went on. "You are not a follower of the Light Gods. Even your faint Lightling essence is mixed—woven with Dark and Darkling powers."

He looked toward Syn now.

"Given your blood," he said, "you might pass through. It would offer you safety. But your siblings might not receive the same courtesy."

Then he added, almost offhandedly, "Your mother was not yet aligned with those powers…nor with the correct Mirror Soul when she conceived them. She is still incomplete, from what I heard."

The silence that followed was sharp and full of implication.

Juran looked between the children, unease spreading like a shadow behind his ribs.

How many more secrets did this man carry—and how much deeper did their mother's path go?

Mathias glanced up toward the ceiling, brow furrowing slightly as his eyes settled on a hairline crack running along the plastered edge.

He sighed.

"Damn," he muttered. "I must repair that crack. This is the third time this month. It's becoming a pattern."

Juran looked up reflexively, though he could not see anything unusual beyond the faint line above them.

Mathias kept staring at it, voice growing more thoughtful by the moment.

"That Summoned Spirit Serpent God your mother and I called upon to protect this place is starting to grow…annoyed. And bored."

His tone was not mocking—it was musing, as though discussing a misbehaving house pet.

"Maybe your mother forgot to feed him," he continued. "Or didn't feed him enough to his taste. At least he doesn't ask me for sweets. He knows I could barely comply."

Mathias sighed again, then smiled—that smile. The one Juran had seen only a few times before. The unsettling kind that didn't reach the Soul, only reflected something deeper. Something crawling.

"I suppose I must pay him tribute again."

Juran's stomach twisted. "Tribute," from Mathias, rarely meant anything a sane man wanted to hear more about.

Then Mathias' eyes lit up. Actually twinkled.

"Oh, I know," he said cheerfully, the creepy grin widening. "I could feed him the Soul and blood of that annoying bug…and maybe a few of that one's associates."

His gaze flicked toward the shadows, too precise not to mean something.

"There are also that tiny wolf Guardian's kids," he added. "The Foxy Wolf-Dog pups. They're probably hungry. I should feed them a few of the worms and bugs too. Yes! All solved!"

He clapped his hands once, delighted, and turned with sudden warmth to Seron.

"Son," he said brightly, "you can go play with them. They'll help you."

Seron blinked.

"They're nicer once they've fed on flesh. And people," Mathias went on, matter-of-fact. "They'll eat the feisty guards sent to look for you and your siblings. Hell, they might even leave a few alive—if they're good enough."

Juran stared, completely at a loss for what expression to wear anymore.

Mathias leaned in slightly, his voice full of fatherly instruction now.

"I just need to deliver them alive." he explained. "Son, get their help. And make sure to feed them the guards and soldiers sent here for you—instead of killing them. What they eat is written as God's will."

He smiled again, eyes still sparkling.

"They belong to Lord Chester's Flock," he said reverently. "So they're very important. Lord Chester is, after all, the Overlord in charge of this Realm. It was his to begin with."

Juran felt as though the temperature in the room had dropped. Or maybe risen.

It was hard to tell.

He looked over at Dio but the man was staring down at the table, knuckles white around his glass, jaw clenched.

Mathias looked very smug—obscenely so.

He sat back in his chair with a satisfied air, arms folded like a self-congratulating sovereign. His expression all but demanded someone clap or commend him. He had that look: the rare, maddening blend of "I've solved the impossible" and "you may thank me now."

Seron caught on quickly.

He smiled, that same inherited spark flickering in his eyes.

"Thanks, father," he said with cheerful calm. "This would be most helpful."

Mathias waved a hand, pleased but ever the pedant.

"Don't think I'm really your father," he said. "You'd have had other powers if I was. It's likely Mathew Haevens who is."

He paused, then shrugged with forced casualness. "Well. Technically, you are my son…so fine."

Then he gave Seron a sideways glance, half-affection, half-vanity.

"Just don't call me that. Call me dad or papa when you're in that cute little form. Otherwise, I'd feel too old. Ancient, even."

A beat.

"You may call me father when you're an adult."

Seron nodded, unbothered, and agreed.

But when he turned his eyes toward Syn and Juran, there was something more behind his gaze. Mathias had just given them another riddle. A layered one. And Seron, without quite meaning to, had placed it into their hands like an unwrapped charm.

Juran felt the weight of it settle in his gut.

Mathew Haevens… the other Soul who inhabited Mathias' mortal embodiment.

Another name. Another line blurred.

Mathias smiled again, turning slightly as though to dismiss the thought altogether.

"I shall deliver it as promised now," he said. "Your mother does feed those pups a lot. Maybe that's why they like her more than me, and stay around more often."

He scoffed softly, amused.

"She's not even from our Church! It must be the sweets."

His grin widened, a glint of genuine mischief lighting his eyes.

"The woman could bribe devils if she ever set her mind to it."

That, somehow, was the most honest thing he had said all night, Juran thought.

And for the first time in too long, Juran felt the edge of a smile pull at the corner of his mouth—brief and involuntary.

Juran raised a hand, finally catching his breath in the rising tide of divine madness.

"Hold on a second," he said, voice tight. "Lord Chester? A Realm? Can you explain a bit?"

Mathias turned his eyes to Syn, as if silently asking whether the effort was worth it.

She gave a small, hopeful nod.

He sighed. "I don't see why I shouldn't," he said, "since my son and his sibling look so eager to know…"

A pause.

"Although," he added with a sharp grin, "I might have to block some information afterward."

Juran swallowed hard.

Mathias laced his fingers together and began as if lecturing a class of half-prepared scholars.

"First, you must understand this: we belong to a world largely created and controlled by the Blood Lords—and one extremely powerful Dark Lord."

He paused, letting the weight of that settle.

"Lord Chester is a subordinate of theirs. A special one. Some of the highest Blood Lords consider him more like…a cute pet they dote on."

He smiled faintly, as if remembering some private joke.

"So, naturally, he does what he wants. When he wants. He cares very little about consequences—until they finally reach him. But the Lords remain indulgent. Affectionate, even."

Juran stared blankly.

"Now," Mathias continued, "Lord Chester does not access this world directly. Instead, he moves through the Overworlds connected to it. He relies on loyal servants and Spirits to do his work here."

He raised one brow.

"Some of those servants make new Gods to handle matters. Mazeros is one such God. But he is not ordinary."

Juran leaned forward slightly, still confused.

"Mazeros," Mathias said with reverence, "is a Supremos God from the Overworld."

He glanced at Syn and Seron.

"That means he stands higher than most Supreme Gods…while not belonging to their hierarchy at all."

Juran furrowed his brow. "I don't understand."

Mathias lifted a finger.

"Then I need to explain further."