The Path to the Sacred Heart

Before us stretched a straight, gleaming path leading directly into the heart of the kingdom, towards the Church. The road was paved with pale bricks, spotless despite the steady stream of carriages and horses passing through. On both sides of the road, there was lush, neatly kept grass, dotted with small trees and flowers blooming in every imaginable colour. Just beyond were darker cobbled pavements, busy with people. Some were dressed in pure white robes of holy attire, their blonde hair catching the sun, while others wore simpler garments in shades of brown, black, or grey, with darker hair. Yet despite the differences in status or dress, they mingled freely, talking, laughing, sharing the same streets without a hint of inequality.

Furthermore, the sunlight gleamed across the whitewashed buildings, each accented with carved wooden beams. Shops lined the streets: food stalls, bookshops, weapon smiths, even stands selling trinkets and dolls shaped like priests and priestesses that children played with happily.

It was a utopian broadway.

Everything felt alive and sacred, yet somehow welcoming.

Father guided us carefully along the pathway, watching the carriages rolling by. We trailed behind, our eyes wide as we tried to take in every detail. Alice and Karen, in particular, were captivated, stopping often to admire sparkling jewellery and other wares displayed outside the shops.

“Come along, girls, we can look at that later,” Father called over his shoulder.

“Yes, Father!” they chimed in unison.

As we continued forward, a vast garden opened on our left. A lake shimmered at its centre, where children splashed and families strolled along shaded paths. To the right rose neat rows of residential buildings, each painted and maintained with care. The further we walked, the more the scenery shifted: high, circular fountains spraying arcs of water, musicians playing hymns beneath trees, and finally, stern military barracks and government halls where guards and knights patrolled with rigid discipline.

The atmosphere grew heavier, more formal.

And then, of course, the centrepiece came into view, the Church itself.

Its front was framed by towering pillars supporting a vast roof, with ever taller structures stretching back in layers until they culminated in a soaring bell tower that pierced the sky. The stone was alive with carvings: angels encircling a radiant central figure haloed in light, surely the Supreme Lord, and warriors battling grotesque monsters, no doubt depictions of demons. The very walls told stories of faith, triumph, and devotion.

“Whoever designed such a structure was a true genius,” I breathed in awe.

“Yes,” Grandma agreed with a wistful smile. “A marvel of its age. They say that a thousand years ago, a celestial architect descended and built this kingdom as a place for humans to worship the Supreme Lord. To this day, the city thrives in joy and peace… though, sometimes, I wonder how much of that tale is true.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” I asked, curious.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grandma said softly, her smile faint. “Best not to think too much.”

"..."

The great doors of the Church were open. People came and went freely, some healthy, some limping or wrapped in bandages.

Inside, the air changed. The ceiling rose to impossible heights, its painted windows bathing the chamber in colored light. Slender pillars supported the roof, and along the sides stood wooden tables holding vases and relics of the faith. A hush lingered even amidst the quiet bustle, because to the left, sick and injured folk waited patiently on the benches, with nuns in black-and-white religious habits moving among them.

I stopped in awe as I saw one nun place her hands over a wounded man. A soft green light blossomed beneath her palms. The man’s expression transformed into pure joy as the glow sank into his injuries, easing his pain.

Without question, this was healing magic. Or rather, the blessing of the Supreme Lord. Perhaps the nuns were simply conduits, with their faith being the key. I wondered if the same would hold true for Karen, whose curse was to be lifted today, not by a nun, but by a priestess of far greater standing.

To the right, I noticed enclosed confession booths, kept private from the main hall. Next to it, further up, was a small store that was selling holy texts and sacred items.

But most of all, the main aisle was draped in a long red carpet patterned with golden embroidery, guiding us forward to the altar. At its end stood a towering statue: a male figure with lotus-shaped eyes, robed in flowing garments, his curly hair carved with painstaking detail. In one hand, he held a sun, in the other a moon. Behind his head glowed a great circle, divine radiance, a symbol of his celestial nature.

Even from afar, the statue entranced me. The longer I gazed, the more I felt a serene weight pressing into me, peace welling in my chest. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I could simply… let go.

Still, we pressed on.

A priest stood before the statue, speaking kindly with those who approached. He wore spectacles, his blonde hair neat, his black-and-white robes marking him as a servant of the faith. A holy book rested in his hand.

As we drew near, he noticed my Father and quickly dismissed those around him with gentle words. His gaze fixed on Father, and a smile spread across his face.

“It is an honour to see you again, Sir Vandrelis,” the priest said warmly. “How may I, a humble servant of the Lord, be of service?”