The world didn't feel the same anymore.
Luke stood there, staring at Saint Cynthia, but he wasn't really seeing her—not truly.
Her words echoed louder than the faint breeze that brushed past them.
A Godsend.
The Will of God made flesh.
It wasn't just an answer to his questions.
It was the start of an entirely new story.
Until now, Luke had thought he was simply a stranger thrown into a foreign world by a cruel twist of fate.
Survival had been his priority—hiding his lack of real magic, avoiding the suspicious gazes, carving a place for himself where he could.
It had always felt detached, even when people whispered about him and even when they revered him.
Something separate from who he really was.
But now...
Now, the line between who Lucas Chandler was and what the world needed him to be had blurred.
The Saint remained silent, as if giving him space to process the enormity of it all.
Beside him, Ilyrana shifted, her grip never loosening from his hand.
