He watched Bihotz, now a brilliant sapphire hue, snore softly on Nerea’s chest. The thought burrowed under his skin like a shard of ice. Grief. He knew grief. It had been his constant companion since the accident, a heavy cloak he wore to shield himself from everything. Was that what Hodei had meant? Was he seeing his own pain reflected in this dying world? The idea was repulsive. He wanted to push it away, to pretend it was just another nonsensical detail in this absurd existence. He wanted to go home. But then Nerea stirred, a soft hum escaping her lips as she adjusted her position, Bihotz shifting slightly with her. Her small, innocent face was a beacon against the gloom. No. He wouldn't push it away, not if it meant her comfort, her safety. He'd face down a thousand toxic grief-dragons if it meant protecting her. He just wished they’d leave them alone. Down in the echoing, stone-hewn dining hall of the basilica, High Priest Gorka watched a novice carefully set a steaming cup of herbal tea before the ornate, empty chair reserved for the ‘Summoned Weapon.’ His knuckles were white against the polished dark wood of the table. His eyes, usually puffed with self-importance, darted nervously around the sparsely populated room. “Is it… prepared?” Gorka’s voice was a strained whisper, raw with a fear that chafed against his inflated ego. He had lost face, lost control. He, the High Priest, had been humiliated by a barbarian child and his scruffy sister. The beast had purred like a housecat. The Calamity had been swept away like dust. This 'Iker Zabal' was a threat to his authority, to the very foundation of the Holy Church. A threat that must be eliminated. A gaunt priest named Odriozola, his face a web of anxious wrinkles, nodded, his gaze fixed on the cup. “Yes, High Priest. The Tear, dissolved without remainder. One drop would fell a grown man. The full relic… it will ensure a swift, painless end to the… guest.” His voice held a tremor, the fear of sacrilege warring with his terror of Gorka’s wrath. The sacred droplet, a relic whispered about in hushed tones, was said to be condensed primordial sorrow capable of extinguishing any life touched by its essence. Gorka had retrieved it from its sealed reliquary in the deepest catacombs, justifying it as a necessary evil to preserve the stability of the realm. A lie, of course. It was to preserve his own power. “Good,” Gorka rasped, a cruel satisfaction tightening his thin lips. “Excellent. Let us see how powerful he is against the true sorrow of this realm.” Upstairs, the stolen luxurious bedroom was a chaotic wonderland. Iker, still in his sleep-rumpled clothes, was meticulously draping an embroidered wall hanging over a series of overturned chairs and a precarious stack of theology books. Nerea, giggling, helped him, her tiny hands struggling with a heavy velvet curtain. Bihotz, the sapphire-scaled dragon, darted around their feet, occasionally batting at a dangling tassel with a playful growl. “Careful with that corner, Ne,” Iker instructed, his voice soft, a stark contrast to the rough edge he presented to the world. “We need a good seal here. Can’t have any drafts.” Nerea, eyes bright, pulled at the fabric. “It’s going to be the best fort ever, Iker! Better than the one in our old living room!” “Of course,” Iker said, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. “We’ll even put the emergency snacks in here.” He gestured to a small pile of dried fruit and stale pastries he’d pilfered from the monastery pantry. Just then, Odriozola arrived, knocking timidly on the grand, oak door. “Forgive the intrusion, Lord… Summoned Weapon. Your morning tea.” He held a silver tray bearing the infamous cup, his hand shaking so violently the tea sloshed dangerously close to the rim. Iker glanced up, annoyed at the interruption. “Just put it on the bedside table, thanks.” He didn’t bother to turn fully, focused on securing the fort’s entrance. “And tell them to send up more blankets. These old hangings are a bit stiff.” The cleric placed the tray down with a clatter, spilling a few drops of the poisoned liquid. He gave a shallow bow and practically fled the room, his conscience a burning coal in his chest. Iker, grunting with effort as he wrestled a particularly stubborn chair into position, reached out blindly for the cup. “Almost got it, Ne. Just need one more… there!” He finally secured the last blanket, creating a cozy, dim interior. He took a long, unthinking sip of the tea. His brow furrowed. “Hmm. Spicy. And a bit… earthy.” He took another, larger gulp, emptying half the cup. “Needs a bit more honey.” He muttered the words, oblivious, as the potent relic dissolved within him. Suddenly, a low rumble started deep in Iker’s chest. It wasn’t a cough, not a sigh, but something deeper, like tectonic plates shifting. Nerea looked up, curious. Bihotz stopped batting the tassel and tilted its head, its sapphire scales vibrating subtly. “You okay, Iker?” Nerea asked, a hint of concern in her voice. “Fine, fine. Just a little… aftertaste.” He took one last, enormous swallow, draining the cup entirely. The rumble intensified, building pressure, until with a sudden, uncontrolled spasm, Iker’s mouth opened wide. *BWOOMPH!* A colossal burp erupted from him, a sound that shook the very foundations of the Grand Cathedral. It wasn’t just air; it was a shockfront of pure, shimmering kinetic force, so potent it slammed into the fort, collapsing it in an instant. Draperies, chairs, books, and even a bewildered Bihotz were sent skittering across the room. Nerea, protected by her brother’s arm, merely blinked. The wave of energy didn’t stop there. It pulsed through the thick stone walls, vibrating through the lead plumbing. Down in the refectory, High Priest Gorka, having just settled in for a celebratory breakfast, felt the tremor. His silver goblet of holy water, placed innocently beside his plate, began to glow. A brilliant, cleansing light radiated from it, chasing away the faint, gray tinge that had always lingered in the sacred liquid. The trembling priest, who had been washing his hands in a basin filled with the fortress’s notoriously turbid, magically corrupted water, cried out. The murky water in the basin, for centuries a symbol of the land’s slow decay, suddenly shimmered. The gray particulate matter within it condensed, separating into tiny, inert pebbles that sank to the bottom, leaving behind crystal-clear, sparkling liquid. The same transformation occurred in every faucet, every cistern, every reservoir within the compound's vast network. The water supply of the sanctuary, purified in an instant, began to run clean. Gorka leaped to his feet, overturning his chair with a crash. “What in the name of the Ancestors was that?!” “High Priest!” a frantic boy burst into the refectory, soaked head to toe in pure, clean water. “The cisterns! The water… it’s clean! Impossibly clean! The Ash Plague has been washed from the pipes!” Another server, breathless, shouted, “The relic! The primordial tear! It’s gone! The reliquary sits empty!” Gorka’s face, already pale with shock, turned ashen. He looked at the now-glowing goblet of pure water, then to the terrified cleric. His gaze snapped back to the empty seat Iker was supposed to occupy, then to the acolyte’s report of the missing relic. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. Iker had *drunk* the crystallized poison. And instead of dying, he had somehow purified the cloister's water supply with a burp. Whispers began to ripple through the assembly of priests. “The Tear… gone?” “The High Priest… used it?” “On the Summoned Weapon?” The implications were dire. Gorka, their spiritual leader, had attempted to murder the divine being he himself had hailed as their savior. His authority, already teetering, shattered like ancient glass. “Silence!” Gorka roared, his voice cracking, but it was too late. The damage was done. Disgrace bloomed on his face, raw and public. His desperate scheme had backfired spectacularly, revealing his treachery and incompetence to the gathered clergy. Upstairs, Iker surveyed the collapsed blanket fort. He shrugged. “Well, that was… unexpected.” Nerea giggled, trying to reassemble a tower of books. Bihotz, having recovered from its airborne journey, was now happily batting at a shiny pebble that had once been part of the water’s impurities. “Still a bit of an aftertaste,” Iker mused, rubbing his chest. “Maybe that’s why it cleared up the sinus infection I didn’t know I had. Feels… lighter, somehow.” He looked out the window, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes. The eternal gray ash was still falling, but something was different. From the stone rooftop, a massive plume of steam was rising, thick and white against the perpetually overcast sky. The newly purified water, now flowing freely from the citadel’s vast network of pipes and drains, was reacting violently with the toxic ash that coated the outside world. A deep, guttural rumble began, not from Iker’s chest this time, but from the landscape itself. Outside, where the Cathedral’s clean water met the corrupted ash, the ground began to boil. A massive, churning mudslide, thick and viscous, began to form, rushing straight toward the fortress's heavy outer walls.

The High Priest's Folly