Chapter 6: The High Priestess's Gambit

Chapter 6: The High Priestess's Gambit

They returned to St. Solomon's under the bruised purple sky of pre-dawn. The oppressive atmosphere of the Veiled Market clung to Jaydon like grave dust, a filth he felt deep in his spirit. The System’s warning about the 'Path of Vengeance' echoed in his mind, a constant, chilling reminder of the enemy's true goal. They didn't want him dead; they wanted him damned.

Inside, the church felt like a fortress and a prison. Elara was huddled in a pew near the altar, wrapped in a threadbare blanket from the donation box. She looked up as they entered, her eyes wide and questioning.

"We know more now," Jaydon said, his voice heavy with a weariness that went beyond lack of sleep. "They want to use you. And they want to use me to do it." He couldn't bring himself to explain the full, horrifying symbiosis of the prophecy—how his fall was meant to be her doom.

"So we stay here? We hide?" she asked, her voice small.

"We prepare," Simon corrected from the doorway, his raven Corvus landing silently on his shoulder. "The holy ground buys us time, but Hecate Malina—the Coven's High Priestess—is not a patient woman. She will escalate."

Jaydon felt the truth of it in his bones. The attack on the church had been a test. The prophecy was the battle plan. Now, the real war would begin. He needed to be a protector, not an executioner. A shepherd, not a wolf. He focused on the memory of the golden light filling the lead-lined box in the market, a tangible piece of his soul, and prayed he could live up to the part of him he'd so easily traded away.

The first blow fell not with a crash of thunder, but with the frantic ringing of his old cell phone.

He pulled it from his pocket, the screen illuminating a familiar name: Martha Gable. She was eighty-four years old, the matriarch of his dwindling flock, a woman whose faith was as steadfast and cracked as the church's foundation.

"Martha? Is everything alright?"

The voice on the other end was a panicked sob, not from Martha, but from her daughter. "Pastor Jaydon! You have to come! It's Mom… and the others from her prayer group. They… they're not right. They're sitting in the dark, whispering. The things they're saying… God forgive me, they're terrible things. The air is so cold, Pastor. Please, hurry!"

Jaydon’s blood ran cold. It wasn't an attack on the church. It was an attack on his flock.

Simon, who had heard the one-sided conversation, swore under his breath. "It's a trap, Jaydon. It's so obvious it's insulting. She couldn't get to you here, so she's pulling you out into the open."

"They're my people, Simon," Jaydon said, his voice dangerously quiet as he grabbed his worn coat.

"They are bait!" Simon shot back, stepping in front of him. "She's using them to get to you. She's counting on you being a good little shepherd. She will have witches waiting. You'll be walking into an ambush, away from your only advantage."

Every word Simon said was logical. Tactical. Correct. And Jaydon didn't care. The image of Martha Gable, who brought him a thermos of soup every Tuesday, sitting in a cold room whispering blasphemies… it was unthinkable. To leave her to that fate was to admit he was no shepherd at all. It was to take the first, willing step onto the Path of Vengeance by abandoning the very people he was meant to protect.

"I know," Jaydon said, meeting the wizard’s gaze. "A shepherd doesn't leave the sheep because the wolf is waiting."

The System chimed, its blue light soft but firm in his vision.

[Shepherd’s Duty (Active): Your flock is in peril. A curse has taken root among the faithful. Go to them. Be their shield and their salvation.]

The quest wasn't a choice; it was an affirmation of who he was.

Martha Gable's small bungalow was in a slightly better part of the neighborhood, but tonight it felt like the bleakest corner of hell. The lights were off. A bone-deep chill radiated from the house, pushing back against the humid night air.

Jaydon pushed the unlocked door open and stepped inside. Simon followed, a sphere of pale blue witch-light hovering over his palm. The living room was dark, the curtains drawn. Four elderly women, including Martha, sat motionless in their chairs, arranged in a loose circle. Their eyes were open but unfocused, their skin a pallid gray. A faint, oily black vapor, visible to Jaydon's Insight, clung to each of them like a second skin, its tendrils sunk deep into their chests.

They were whispering. A discordant, overlapping litany of fear, doubt, and despair.

"He never answers…" "…all that praying for nothing…" "…the cancer is back…" "…abandoned us…"

These weren't just random whispers. They were the women's deepest fears, their most painful secrets, weaponized and turned back on them by the curse. It was feeding on their faith by drowning it in despair. It was exquisitely, personally cruel.

"A Despair Curse," Simon breathed, his face grim. "Nasty, parasitic magic. It doesn't kill the body, it starves the soul. Hecate's signature."

Jaydon felt the anger rise, hot and righteous, but he choked it down, replacing it with a cold resolve. Vengeance wouldn't help these women. Only he could. He walked into the center of the circle, the chill intensifying. He needed a weapon, but not one of force. A tool. A miracle.

As if hearing his plea, the System responded.

[Suffer the Faithful. Your compassion has unlocked a new skill: Rite of Cleansing]

[Rite of Cleansing - Lvl 1: Become a conduit for divine grace. By channeling your Faith and Mana, you can purge curses, banish spiritual maladies, and heal wounds of the soul. Requires physical contact and sustained concentration. Cost: 25 Mana per minute.]

Jaydon knelt before Martha Gable. Her eyes were glassy, a single tear tracing a path through the wrinkles on her cheek. He gently took her frail, cold hands in his. They felt like ice.

"Martha," he said softly. "I'm here."

He activated the Rite. [Cost: 25 Mana]. A wave of exhaustion hit him immediately, far greater than the sharp burst for the Word of Rebuke. This was a sustained, draining effort. Warm, golden light flowed from his hands into hers.

The curse fought back.

He felt a sudden, crushing wave of Martha's despair wash over him—her terror of dying alone, her pain from the arthritis that wracked her joints, her secret crisis of faith after her husband passed. The oily black tendrils resisted his light, feeding him her pain. He gritted his teeth, pouring more of himself into the rite. His own Mana bar, visible in the corner of his eye, began to drop alarmingly fast. 25 more Mana gone. [50/100]

"Light…" Martha whispered, her voice a dry rasp. Her knuckles whitened in his grip.

"Hold on," Jaydon grunted, the strain making sweat bead on his forehead. He pushed harder, channeling not just power, but his own unwavering belief, using it as a shield against the torrent of misery. The golden light intensified, and with a final, violent shudder, the black vapor clinging to Martha hissed and dissolved into nothing.

Color rushed back into her face. Her eyes cleared, focusing on him with dawning recognition. "Pastor Jaydon?"

He had no time to answer. He moved to the next woman, and the next, and the next. Each exorcism was a brutal battle. He absorbed their pain, fought their demons, and poured his own spiritual energy into their depleted souls. His Mana plummeted. [25/100]. [0/100]. The System flashed a warning.

[MANA DEPLETED. CONVERTING FAITH TO MANA AT A HIGH COST. SPIRITUAL STRENGTH FADING.]

He was running on fumes, his very soul the fuel. When he finally released the hand of the last woman, he collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. The chill in the room was gone, replaced by the warm, sacred glow of four saved souls. He had done it. He had saved his flock.

But Simon's urgent voice cut through his exhaustion. "Jaydon. We have company."

Jaydon looked up. The front door, which had been closed, was now wide open. Framed in the doorway stood a woman. She was tall and regal, her face a mask of aristocratic severity, her stark white hair woven into an intricate braid. Flowing dark robes embroidered with silver serpents swirled around her. She held a gnarled staff topped with a pulsing obsidian orb, and her cold, calculating eyes were fixed on him.

It was Hecate Malina.

She smiled, a thin, cruel slash in her pale face. "Such a good Shepherd," she said, her voice dripping with mock admiration. "So compassionate. So righteous." She took a step into the house, her presence snuffing out the residual holy light like a suffocating blanket. "And so predictably, wonderfully, weak."

The trap had been sprung. He was drained, vulnerable, and miles from his sanctuary. And the wolf was finally at the door.