Excerpt from 'Taming the Devil': © T. A. Moore June, 2026

PART XVI: RAVEN

1:: My Sentencing

 The civic rule of the city beyond has severed. I step into Blessed Grace Cathedral.

Electricity.

Water.

Gas.

Only crowds remain.

Inside: dust, echo, old stone.

My sentence loops:

Raven J. Leilani.

Five years.

My people called that much time ‘inevitable’:

Consequence.

Due process.

I’m not alone; Father Stephen paces the nave. His fingers keep finding the hem of his robe. His eyes continue returning to the cracks in the foundation wall.

The cathedral is collapsing... slowly.

So is he.

"Raven." His voice stays low. "You're trapped."

I move closer. "Calm down."

Outside, sirens rise and fall.

Performance.

Pressure.

Stephen rubs his temples. "You once said clergy and orphans should feel shame for living here."

I think about it. "I probably did."

He watches me, waiting for remorse.

Nothing arrives, only fatigue.

The junior priests drift past.

Prayer posture.

Evacuated eyes.

"I don't know how much longer we can hold out,” he says,

"it's not about holding." He looks at me like I might know.

I don't. I make eye contact anyway...

Outside, chanting swells.

I try not to listen too carefully, but something is changing.

Not circumstances, but people.

That feels less manageable.

A voice. Boots.

A red coat. Aaranya.

She stops beside us.

"Raven." Her tone is annoyingly gentle.

"We can still be hopeful." I smile.

Terrible opening line.

She continues: "When people say ‘blessed’, they usually mean things went well." Then looking upward, "But what if they didn't?"

I wait...

She doesn't rush. "What if something ends and nobody explains why?"

I look away. "I've turned fifty." he sentence sounds older spoken aloud.

"Soon I'll be old too." She smiles Not kindly. Not cruelly. But like she already knows something. "My mum used to say life gets harder."

A pause.

"Then easier."

A pause.

"Then harder again."

I laugh, against my better judgement. "That's grim."

"It's freedom," she says.

I look toward the altar. Toward stone. Toward damage. Toward spent years.

She says quietly: "It doesn't always look like a blessing."

Neither of us moves.

Outside—the crowd keeps chanting.

Inside—something shifts.

No language available.

Excerpt from 'Taming the Devil': © T. A. Moore June, 2024