"What happened, Bishop?!"
Lyra was on edge, and rightfully so. Antenor was an 8th-class magus—at the very height of Occultists. The failure of a past-divining spell, especially with the support of two other magi from the Astral Sorceries, was of the realm of impossibility.
This meant two things; either they were trying to spy on a being far above their current power, or someone directly interfered with their attempt, even with the presence of Aigokeros' offspring. Both possibilities were frightening enough and warranted the highest of caution.
"Someone... or something forcibly tore apart my link with the flow of Mana." Antenor measured his words, his tone grave. "The backlash wasn't entirely due to the spell failing. It was a warning not to pry any further."
"Does this mean..." The words caught in Lyra's throat, and she couldn't finish her sentence.
"We don't know yet. If the Ashen Gift is real and somehow managed to infiltrate Priene's Theurgic Field, there should be traces. The Five Graces are the ones tending to the barrier, so I'll contact them. You bring Stolos to the Inner Monastery's physician. Understood?"
"Yes, Your Excellency." Lyra nodded, approaching the Novice's unconscious body.
At that moment, the office door sprung open, and a panicked member of the Gilded Watch froze at the sight of the destroyed room.
"What's the matter?" Antenor barked, having yet to regain his calm.
The armored guard snapped back to reality, stuttering in fear, "Y-Your Excellency. The temple guard and the slave you had us confine..."
"What about them?!" The Bishop started to lose his patience.
"They're dead."
—
In the meantime, in the Celestial Offering's wing.
Maia slowly entered Laemno's chambers, closing the door behind her. She fiddled with her simple linen robe, straightening the creases and wiping something off her hand. He glanced up at her, still holding the crown of stone thorns.
"What was the commotion just now?" Laemno inquired.
The Adonal Virgin gracefully bowed, disappointment etched on her face. "I deeply apologize, Honored One. I couldn't find out. The Gilded Watch completely surrounded the hallway leading to Father Phineus' office."
"Father Phineus?" Laemno raised an eyebrow, whispering, "Did they find out about the hypnotic cues?"
"I do not believe so. Otherwise, they would already be rounding up all the slaves within the Inner Monastery."
"Hm, you're right." Laemno nodded to himself. "Did you finish the map I ordered you to draw?"
"Of course, Honored One." She took a neatly folded piece of papyrus from under her red wraps, respectfully handing it to Laemno. "All the instructions about navigating the passageway are in there."
He flapped the papyrus open, quickly going through its content. It was mostly basic indications, such as the directions and number of turns to take before reaching the furthest end of the tunnel, starting from the entrance. A rough map of the Inner Monastery's secluded wing also showed the gate leading underground.
"Good work. You did well, Maia."
Laemno thought he saw the Adonal Virgin trembling for a second, but a blink was all it took for her to regain her usual poise. He shook his head, throwing the crown on the bed to massage his temples with his free hand.
I've been stressing out non-stop ever since I came here. It's taking a toll on me.
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a few shouts reverberated. Laemno curiously checked their source, spotting a line of clergymen and women wearing a strange mix of clerical cloth and armor.
They left in groups of four to five through the marble gate of the Luminous House, heading down the hill to the city.
"Huh. I wonder what's happening."
—
At noon in the Divine Capital Priene, within the Levidis family mansion
Nysa opened her eyes to the cold familiarity of her chamber's painted ceiling. She moved under her covers, realizing that she was wearing dry clothes despite having thrown herself at her bed while soaking wet last night.
The face of that gentle slave who always kindly braided her hair in the morning flickered in her mind, filling her with fleeting warmth. She could never recall her name and never bothered to do so, but that servant's presence had always been strangely comforting.
Unfortunately, she didn't seem to be here today.
Nysa glanced across her room, noticing that no one was waiting for her. The door was oddly ajar, and the usual bustle of servants through the hallways was nowhere to be heard or seen.
She forced herself up with a sigh, wincing as her stomach growled from hunger.
The mystical cloth wrapped around her injured arm pulsated with a faint, greenish light. It hummed along the eyepatch tied around her head, sharing a single rhythm as Mana coursed through them.
It was a common occurrence for Relics who shared the same space, though little of its significance was understood by modern magecraft.
She found a large kylix filled with water on her nightstand, using it to wash her face. Then, garbed with only her woolen dress, she walked out to her balcony, gazing at the courtyard. It was unnaturally empty.
"What's going on?"
Distraught by the unsettling silence, she hurried through the nearest antechamber and climbed the spiraling stairs, heading for the roof gardens.
When she opened the small wooden door leading outside, she was hit by a gentle breeze, perhaps cold for some, yet comfortably warm for a Sethian like Nysa, who had lived in the gloomy province of Noxatra.
Her mother, Lady Helle Levidis, sat before the marble table, surrounded by symmetrical ponds on each side. She was having lunch with someone, though Nysa couldn't immediately make out their appearance.
As her single valid eye accommodated the blinding sunlight, she recognized the individual sitting with her prideful, deeply elitist mother and nearly choked on her breath. She immediately questioned her sanity, then considered the fact that she was dreaming.
For even if the sky collapsed and the Reverse Boundary of the World swept over the world, the Lady Helle would never accept to lower herself and share a table with such a person.
Nysa blinked twice, focusing her uncertain gaze on the young woman enjoying the tasteful honey bread of their household's cook.
She had tanned skin, leathery hands from the countless hours of manual work, and small stature. Her hazelnut hair, usually tied in a short braid due to her status as a slave, was now unfurled on her shoulders. She looked at Nysa, flashing her a smile as her raven eyes sparkled from the sweetness of her meal.
It was the kind slave who usually braided her hair, the sole glimmer of warmth in this luxurious yet cold mansion.