Chapter 448: Chapter 448: A Night With the Elders

The orphanage was silent.

Not the warm, lively silence of daytime when children whispered secrets under blankets — but the kind that settled heavy after midnight, when even the lanterns seemed to breathe slower.

Noel sat on the edge of the narrow bed the sisters had prepared for him, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced together. The room was simple — wooden desk, small window, a single candle burning low — but he recognized it instantly.

The same room where he once slept with Marcus, Laziel, and Garron during the attack months ago.

Tonight, he was alone.

Noir lay curled beside him, black fur blending with the shadows, violet eyes watching him quietly.

The stillness pressed in from all sides.

There was no laughter of kids through the walls, no Charlotte humming somewhere in the corridors, no distant footsteps of late-working sisters.

Just Noel.

And the weight of everything that had changed today.

He rubbed the back of his neck slowly, letting a long breath escape.

’They didn’t walk out this time. They stayed. But that doesn’t mean they’ve accepted anything.’

Noir shifted, claws tapping lightly against the blanket as she sat up.

’You’re thinking too much,’ she whispered in his mind.

Noel didn’t answer at first.

He stared at the dim candle, watching the small flame tremble.

He wasn’t afraid of the elders — not really.

But he understood the danger of a Church divided. And he understood even more what would happen if the opposition grew bolder.

He stood up slowly.

Reached for his coat.

Straightened the collar.

Noir climbed smoothly up to his shoulder, settling there with practiced ease.

’You’re going to see them,’ she said. It was not a question.

Noel finally spoke, voice quiet but firm.

“Yeah. I need to hear what they really think. Without the crowd… without Charlotte… without Orthran.”

He opened the door, the hinges creaking softly.

The hallway outside was dim, lit only by a single lantern.

Shadows stretched long across the walls.

Noel glanced back once — at the empty bed, the small desk, the quiet candle.

Then he stepped out.

“Let’s go,” he murmured.

Noir’s tail brushed his cheek.

And together, they vanished into the late-night corridor, heading toward the Cathedral’s looming silhouette.

The Cathedral loomed larger at night.

Moonlight washed over its white stone walls, turning them silver; the stained-glass windows no longer glowed with holy colors but reflected the darkness around them. The great entrance doors were closed to the public at this hour, yet a side passage burned with faint lantern light.

That was where Noel headed.

His boots echoed lightly on the marble steps as Noir balanced on his shoulder, ears twitching with each shift in the air.

When they reached the side door, Noel didn’t knock.

He pushed it open.

The interior corridor was dim, lit by half-burnt candles. A familiar tension hung in the air — thick, wary, expectant. Noir’s gaze flicked upward.

’They’re inside,’ she murmured.

Noel stepped closer to the chamber at the end of the hall — a room normally used for cleric meetings and records. Tonight, voices murmured behind the door. Low. Uneasy.

He placed his hand on the door.

Pushed.

The room fell silent the moment he entered.

Eight elders stood inside — all the ones who had resisted Charlotte’s reform. They gathered around a long wooden table, scrolls spread out, candles flickering over their stern faces. Some of them Noel recognized from earlier; others he remembered from the day he fought beside Charlotte during the attack months ago.

Every gaze sharpened.

One elder scoffed quietly.

Another folded his arms.

Rhedon stood at the head of the table, expression unreadable.

Noel stepped forward slowly, letting the door close behind him.

“I’m here to talk,” he said plainly. “Whatever you couldn’t say in front of the others… say it to me now.”

A murmur rippled through them — annoyance, disbelief, resistance.

“You?” one elder said, voice laced with disdain. “We owe no explanations to a child.”

Another added sharply, “This is not your place. Matters of doctrine and faith are not for outsiders.”

Noir’s tail flicked irritably, but Noel lifted a hand to quiet her before she spoke.

“I’m not here to fight you,” Noel replied. “I want to understand. I want to know why you’re against this. Why you couldn’t say it in public.”

A few elders exchanged glances, torn between offense and… something softer. Something closer to fear.

Rhedon finally stepped forward.

“We remember what you did,” he said. “You saved the Saint during the attack. All of us know it.”

A pause.

Then his tone hardened.

“But this goes far beyond that, boy.”

Noel met his gaze.

“I know.”

The elders stared, tense and assessing.

“And that,” Noel added quietly, “is exactly why we need to talk.”

The room tightened around him.

Not physically — but in the way breaths shortened, shoulders squared, and old men braced themselves as if preparing for a storm.

Rhedon clasped his hands behind his back.

“Very well,” he said. “You want honesty? Then hear it.”

He didn’t raise his voice, but the weight of his tone carried through the chamber.

“We are not afraid of change,” he began. “We are afraid of collapse.”

Another elder stepped forward — a thin man with sharp eyes and deep worry lines.

“For decades,” he said, “our people survived war, famine, corruption… because they believed in Elarin’s teachings. His existence kept this nation standing when everything else failed.”

A third elder slammed a scroll onto the table.

“And now the Saint wants to rewrite his story. Overnight. Do you understand what that means for millions who built their lives around that doctrine?”

Noel stayed silent.

Let them speak.

Let them reveal the real wound.

Rhedon inhaled slowly.

“We do not resist her because we want to. We resist because if we move too fast, the entire Church may break under its own weight.”

Another elder muttered under his breath:

“Faith is fragile, boy. Once shattered… it does not return.”

Noel finally stepped closer to the table, eyes steady.

“And what about the truth?” he asked. “Doesn’t it matter that everyone has been following a story that’s already falling apart?”

Several elders flinched at the word truth.

But Noel didn’t stop.

“You’re already losing the younger believers,” Noel continued. “And ever since Saint Charlotte said the doctrine must change — because of the recent events — she planted a seed of doubt in everyone.”

Several elders stiffened, their eyes widening slightly.

Noel leaned in just enough for his words to land heavier.

“That seed is growing. People are watching closely now. They’re alert, waiting, questioning. If we don’t act while everyone is paying attention… we risk losing them all.”

The elders exchanged tense, uneasy glances.

“And if nothing changes,” Noel finished quietly, “the doctrine will collapse on its own. Sooner than you think.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

The candles crackled softly, throwing uneven shadows across the elders’ lined faces. They didn’t look defiant now — just shaken. Older men who had carried the same teachings their entire lives… suddenly forced to look at cracks they’d never wanted to see.

Rhedon exhaled slowly, lowering himself into a chair.

“You speak as if we are blind,” he murmured. “But we see it too. The questions. The murmurs after sermons. The hesitation in prayer halls.”

Another elder rubbed his temple, voice tight.

“Some of the sisters asked me yesterday if Elarin truly vanished for the reasons we teach. I had no answer.”

A third — the stern one who had snapped at Noel earlier — finally let the facade slip.

“We are afraid,” he admitted quietly. “Not of change… but of destroying the last thing people trust in this world.”

Noel didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t soften.

He just listened — exactly what they needed.

Rhedon looked up again, eyes tired but sharp.

“Young Thorne,” he said, “you speak with confidence, but you have not stood in front of a thousand believers when their world crumbles.”

Noel shook his head. “No. But I’ve seen what happens when people cling to lies they can’t bear to question. It breaks them.”

The elders absorbed that.

One elder, voice trembling at the edges, whispered:

“If we move too quickly… if we misstep… faith could die.”

Noel stepped closer to the table.

“Then don’t move quickly,” he said. “Move wisely. With Charlotte. With Orthran. With time. But you have to move.”

The room fell still.

“…We need guidance,” he admitted. “More than we need pride.”

Another elder nodded, shoulders lowering for the first time.

“And honesty,” added a second.

“And direction,” murmured a third.

Rhedon looked around the room, scanning the faces of his fellow elders — men who had argued, resisted, doubted… yet now stood on the edge of something unfamiliar.

Willingness.

A quiet, trembling willingness.

At last, he turned back to Noel.

His voice was steady, but stripped of all arrogance:

“…Then tell us this, Noel Thorne. What do we do now?”

The others shifted, robes rustling softly as they leaned in.

Eight pairs of eyes fixed on him — not with expectation, not with superiority… but with genuine need.

The weight of it pressed against the air.

Noel didn’t hesitate.

“You follow Orthran and Charlotte,” he said plainly. “You let them guide the pace. You let them lead the change.”

Some elders nodded slowly.

Others pressed their lips together.

Rhedon frowned slightly. “And what of the details? The questions we still have? The things we’re… afraid to ask in public?”

Noel met his gaze.

“Then ask them,” he replied. “Not me.”

Silence.

Noir’s tail flicked once on his shoulder.

Noel continued, firmer this time:

“If you want answers about doctrine, about Elarin, about how to teach the people… then talk to Charlotte and Orthran directly. They’ll tell you what they can. And what they can’t, they’ll explain why.”

The elders exchanged glances again — but this time, something clicked.

Rhedon let out a breath he’d been holding for hours.

“So our next step,” he murmured, “is not rebellion… but cooperation.”

“That’s right,” Noel said quietly. “You don’t need to fight them. You need to understand them.”

A long pause.

Then the eldest elder bowed his head — the smallest, most fragile gesture of respect.

“…Very well,” he whispered. “Tomorrow… we will speak with the Pope and the Saint.”

Noel nodded.

The tension that had gripped the room from the moment he walked in finally loosened.

As the elders slowly dispersed, robes brushing the stone floor, Noir pressed her head lightly against Noel’s cheek.

’That went well,’ she whispered.

Noel exhaled, crossing his arms as the door closed behind the last elder.

“Better than expected, they’re just a bunch of stubborn old people”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep