Gallen remained motionless in his usual watchpost, his binoculars scanning the murky expanse of the Agato swamplands. The air was thick with the stench of decay and the distant croaking of unseen creatures, but he had long grown accustomed to the oppressive atmosphere. Around him, hidden among the gnarled roots and stagnant waters, the rest of the Shadowlights waited in silence—each one a blade in the dark, a silent executioner of the Church's will.

They had been stationed here for days, patient as death itself, waiting for their target to emerge. The mission was clear: eliminate the rising cult that had begun to fester like an open wound in the heart of the swamp. And at the center of it all was their true objective—the so-called Saintess in Red and White.

The very title made Gallen's jaw tighten. He was a devout servant of the Light, a man who had dedicated his life to upholding the sanctity of the Church. True Saints were chosen by divine grace, blessed with the power to mend flesh and spirit alike through the holy radiance of their faith. But this woman—this witch—dared to claim the same title while wielding some blasphemous power they did not yet understand.

Whispers spoke of her miracles—of wounds closing at her touch, of the sick rising from their deathbeds as if reborn. But Gallen knew better. Such power could not come from the Light. It was a perversion, a trick woven from shadows and deceit. The hidden leadership of the Church had declared her a heresy that needed to be purged, and the Shadowlights were the instruments of that judgment.

Gallen adjusted the focus on his binoculars, the lenses sweeping over the crumbling ruins of the abandoned town. The skeletal remains of buildings jutted from the swamp like broken teeth, their hollow windows staring back at him with eerie stillness. The only movement came from the sluggish drift of mist across the waterlogged streets.

A rustle of fabric and the soft squelch of boots in mud signaled an approach from behind. Without turning, Gallen knew who it was—Yovis, the leader of their operation, settling beside him beneath the camo net.

Yovis: "How's it looking?" he asked, his voice low.

Gallen: "Still no movement," he muttered. "Are you sure she's going to come?"

Yovis exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried the weight of long patience.

Yovis: "I spent months pretending to be part of their cult. Learning their rituals, earning their trust. She'll come." He leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the ghost town. "She was moved by that fake story I fed her—a community of lepers, desperate and forgotten, hidden deep in the swamp. She won't resist the chance to 'save' them, to pull them into her twisted congregation."

Gallen frowned.

Gallen: "Could she really cure something like leprosy? Even for a master healer, that's no small feat."

Yovis: "Probably." his voice was grim. "You weren't there during the infiltration. You didn't see what I saw. Those stories about her? All true. And her power… it surpasses even our Saints'."

Gallen's grip tightened around the binoculars.

Gallen: "That's blasphemy."

Yovis: "It's the truth," he countered, unflinching. "Our Saints can restore lost limbs, yes—but only in those who wield aether. The aetherless? They're left to rot. Their bodies can't sustain the magic. But Steph?" He shook his head. "She heals anyone. Aether or not. And the speed… Gallen, I watched her restore twenty cripples in under an hour. Twenty."

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Gallen: "An hour?!" he hissed, finally tearing his gaze from the binoculars to stare at Yovis.

Yovis: "Saint Vax needs a full day's rest after restoring a single lost limb," he continued, his voice edged with something between awe and disgust. "Steph did twenty and walked away like it was nothing."

A cold knot formed in Gallen's stomach.

Gallen: "How?"

Yovis: "That's the part I never figured out." his brow furrowed. "The aether I sensed when she worked… It was strange."

Gallen: "Like, you felt the malevolent presence of a Nameless God?"

Yovis: "Not like the corruption of a Nameless God, but… hollow. Like the aether was just a mask, hiding something else."

Gallen's blood ran cold.

Gallen: "I see. I wonder what—"

A flicker of movement in the ruins cut him off.

Gallen's breath hitched as he peered through the binoculars. A lone figure, draped in flowing white robes with crimson embroidery, emerged from the mist-shrouded treeline. The Saintess in Red and White moved with an eerie grace, her steps light upon the rotting boardwalks of the abandoned town.

Gallen: "Yovis, it's her!" he whispered, unable to suppress the thrill in his voice. "She really came—just like you said!"

In an instant, Yovis' calloused hand clamped over Gallen's mouth, muffling any further sound. The older man's eyes burned with warning as he leaned in, his voice a razor-thin whisper.

Yovis: "Quiet, you fool. You think she'd walk into hostile territory completely alone? There'll be guards—fanatics, armed and hidden just beyond the tree line, watching. They'll wait until she's done playing savior to her imaginary lepers before escorting her back."

Gallen's pulse hammered against his ribs, but he nodded sharply. Satisfied, Yovis released him.

Gallen: "So what's the plan?" he murmured, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Yovis' lips curled into a humorless smile.

Yovis: "I told her the leader of the lepers would meet her in the church at the center of town. That's where she's headed now." He gestured toward the crumbling steeple barely visible through the swamp's perpetual haze. "We wait until full dark, then move in. The Jinsil aerosol canisters will do the rest."

Gallen's fingers instinctively brushed the reinforced satchel at his hip, feeling the cold metal cylinders within. Jinsil aerosol—a prohibitively difficult to acquire substance that disrupted aether flow, rendering magic temporarily useless within its radius by spreading tiny Jinsil particles into the air.

Yovis: "Once that church is flooded with gas," he continued, "her fake miracles won't save her. No incantations, no healing—just steel and gunpowder." He patted the revolver at his belt. "And then we end this heresy for good."

Gallen adjusted his binoculars, the haze causing the distant figure to shimmer like a mirage. As Steph moved gracefully through the abandoned town square, something nagged at him. He lowered the optics slightly, frowning.

Gallen: "Yovis?" he whispered. "That Red Cult calls her the Saintess in Red and White, right?"

Yovis: "Yup," the leader of the team confirmed without looking up from cleaning his pistol. "That's their precious title for her."

Gallen's frown deepened.

Gallen: "Well... she's not wearing any red. Just pure white robes. Not even a trim or embroidery."

Yovis chuckled darkly, finally glancing up.

Yovis: "Noticed that, did you? Same when I was undercover. Day to day, she's always in white - spotless, like she's afraid of getting dirty."

Gallen: "Then why the name?" he pressed, a strange unease creeping up his spine.

Yovis shrugged, reassembling his weapon with practiced ease.

Yovis: "Could be ceremonial. Maybe she breaks out the red for sacrifices." He snapped the cylinder back into place with a sharp click. "Does it matter? Focus on the mission."

But as Gallen returned to his surveillance, he couldn't shake the feeling they were missing something crucial.

Yovis was probably right - it didn't matter. Yet as the Saintess disappeared into the derelict church, Gallen found himself wondering if the "Red" in her title might be more literal than any of them had imagined. The swamp's oppressive heat suddenly felt colder.

Nightfall couldn't come soon enough.

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