Chapter 62: A Break In At St. Avaline’s

The jet touched down on Feilun’s rain-slicked runway, tires hissing against the wet tarmac.

Midnight had come and gone, leaving the city shrouded in darkness broken only by scattered lights.

Kane pressed his face against the window, watching sheets of rain distort the airport lights into watery halos.

"Perfect weather for breaking into a cathedral."

Cyrus led him across the tarmac, their shoulders hunched against the downpour. Rain hammered against Kane’s jacket, soaking through within seconds.

In the private terminal’s parking garage, a sleek black Mercedes waited, its polished surface reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead.

Cyrus started the engine, its purr barely audible above the rain pounding the roof. He navigated through the empty airport roads, windshield wipers slashing rhythmically through the deluge.

Downtown Feilun emerged from the rain like a noir film set—all gleaming wet streets and neon reflections.

Streetlights cast long fingers across the Mercedes’s hood as they approached the old district.

St. Aveline’s spire pierced the night sky, illuminated by floodlights that cut through the rain like searchlights.

The cathedral stood silent and imposing, its gothic architecture looming over them as Cyrus parked across the street.

Kane stared at the cathedral’s silhouette through the rain-streaked window, a wry smile tugging at his lips. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.

"You know what’s absolutely ridiculous?" he said, breaking the silence.

"We went all the way to that temple, got attacked by stone golems, nearly died, then flew halfway across the world and infiltrated a cruise ship—just to end up back in Feilun."

Cyrus cut the engine, plunging them into darkness broken only by the cathedral’s distant lights.

Kane drummed his fingers against the dashboard, watching raindrops race down the windshield.

"If I believed in fate, I’d say it was laughing at us."

The cathedral’s light flickered in Cyrus’s eyes as he turned to Kane.

"Perhaps it wasn’t ready to be found until now."

They slipped across the rain-drenched street, hugging shadows as they approached the cathedral’s side entrance.

Water poured from gargoyle mouths, forming a curtain of rain that concealed their approach.

Kane crouched before the ancient oak door, producing a small leather pouch from his jacket pocket.

His fingers, nimble despite the cold, extracted two slender metal tools.

"Stand watch," he whispered, inserting the tension wrench into the lock.

Cyrus positioned himself at Kane’s back, eyes scanning the empty street while rain plastered his hair against his forehead.

The lock clicked and surrendered after thirty seconds of Kane’s precise manipulations. He pushed the door open with a satisfied smirk.

"The Bureau teaches such skills?" Cyrus said, eyebrow raised.

Kane slipped the tools back into their pouch.

"The BSA prefers warrants and official channels." His eyes held something guarded, something from before his Bureau days.

"Let’s just say I had a different education before joining the straight and narrow."

Cyrus’s lips twitched with amusement as he watched Kane tuck away his lockpicks.

The dragon could have simply pressed his palm against the ancient wood and commanded it to open with a whisper of power—no tools required.

The lock would have melted away like ice under summer sun.

But something stopped him from mentioning this.

The memory of Kane’s dejected expression aboard the ship flashed through Cyrus’s mind.

"Impressive technique," Cyrus said instead, his voice low. "You handled that lock faster than most professionals I’ve encountered."

Kane glanced up, surprise flickering across his features at the unexpected praise.

"Thanks." Kane’s voice carried a hint of warmth that surprised even him. "Most people don’t appreciate the artistry involved."

They slipped inside, closing the door against the storm.

The cathedral’s interior unfolded before them in shadowy grandeur—a vast nave flanked by soaring stone columns that disappeared into darkness above.

Moonlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscope patterns across the worn marble floor.

Ancient wooden pews stretched in perfect rows toward the altar, their surfaces polished by generations of faithful hands.

The air hung heavy with the lingering scent of incense and beeswax candles, mixed with the earthy perfume of old stone and aged wood.

A massive pipe organ dominated the rear wall, its silent brass pipes gleaming dully in the dim light.

Ornate carvings adorned every surface—saints and angels frozen in eternal vigilance along the walls.

Kane’s footsteps echoed against the vaulted ceiling as they moved deeper into the sanctuary.

He pointed toward the altar, where a golden crucifix caught what little light penetrated the darkness.

"Humans built this place centuries ago," Kane whispered, his voice barely disturbing the cathedral’s ancient silence.

"No spirit magic, just stone and faith and countless hours of human craftsmanship."

Kane paused mid-step, his gaze sweeping over the cathedral’s towering magnificence.

Something didn’t add up.

"Why would Bob send us here?" he whispered, his breath fogging in the chilled air.

"A human place of worship seems an odd location to hide a spirit artifact."

He ran his fingers along a carved pew, feeling centuries of prayers worn into the wood.

The cathedral felt disconnected from their world of spirits and ancient magic—too public and mundane despite its grandeur.

"Bob doesn’t strike me as particularly religious," Kane continued, eyeing a statue of St. Aveline with suspicion.

Cyrus moved silently through a shaft of colored moonlight, his silhouette momentarily transformed by the stained glass.

He gestured toward a narrow doorway behind the altar.

They moved through the shadows, footsteps barely audible against the stone floor.

Kane caught himself stepping carefully around a small offering of flowers, unwilling to disturb even this simple arrangement.

They had just reached the altar when a gravelly voice echoed through the cathedral.

"Young spirits wandering at midnight. What brings you to my sanctuary?"

Kane spun around, hand instinctively reaching for his weapon. Beside him, Cyrus went rigid.

An elderly man stood in a pool of moonlight, his white robes glowing in the darkness.

His face was deeply lined, eyes milky with cataracts, yet he stared directly at them.

Kane felt the familiar tingle of recognition—the subtle vibration in the air that only happened in the presence of other spirits.

"You’re—" Kane began.

"Yes, child," the old man smiled, his form momentarily shimmering at the edges.

"I’ve been caretaker of St. Aveline’s for two centuries now. The humans know me only as Father Thomas."