As dusk settled over the city, casting its warm golden glow on the rooftops, Elara made her way home, her mind swirling with questions and an unshakable sense of unease.
She slipped through the winding streets, her cloak pulled close to avoid the bustling crowd heading to the evening markets and shrines.
Even after her meeting with Kael, her mind kept drifting back to Lucian, or rather, the silence she had received from him for a month now.
Arriving home, she paused by the door, took a steadying breath, and held out her hand, murmuring a quiet incantation that was once second nature.
Yet again, nothing happened. The air remained still, unyielding, as if her words hadn't held any power at all.
"Lucian?" she whispered into the quiet. "You there?"
Nothing. Not even the faintest stirring in the shadows. She clenched her jaw, her hand dropping to her side.
This was the fourth time she'd tried to summon him in the past month alone. And each time, the silence had stretched on, heavier and colder, fueling her fears.
When she first realized he wasn't responding, she'd dismissed it. After all, Lucian was elusive, often disappearing without warning.
But days turned into weeks, and each attempt to reach him felt like shouting into an empty void.
"What if… what if he never comes back?" The thought pressed down on her, and she felt her stomach tighten in an unfamiliar way. Elara scoffed, shaking her head at her own reaction.
"No, he's probably just doing something ridiculously cryptic as always," she muttered to herself, forcing a laugh to lighten the growing worry.
But deep down, something gnawed at her. She couldn't dismiss the thought that maybe, just maybe, she'd imagined it all—everything from the moment she encountered him in the forest to the training, the dark arts, the strange, consuming presence he brought into her life.
It felt like a fever dream at times, some dark fantasy she had spun up in her mind. Yet, as her thumb grazed over her ring finger, she felt the hard, cold surface of the obsidian ring resting there.
It was the only reminder she had, the one tangible proof that Lucian's presence hadn't been a mere illusion.
She traced her finger over the smooth stone, feeling a strange, almost comforting sensation at its coolness against her skin. "See? He's real," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
The thought settled her racing heart, and she took a slow, calming breath, letting the reassurance sink in.
But then another thought slipped in unbidden—What if something happened to him? The question lingered, unwelcome and worrying.
Elara caught herself frowning, scolding her mind for even entertaining the idea. Lucian was powerful, stronger than anyone she knew, even in the temple.
Whatever he was doing, surely it was by choice, not because of some setback. "He's probably perfectly fine," she muttered, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.
Evening was quickly descending, washing the city in hues of purple and deep blue. She knew it was time to don the mask she'd perfected over the months—the guise of a devoted believer.
She straightened her posture, taking a deep breath and pulling her cloak closer around her. After one last glance around her empty room, she sighed, more to herself than anyone else. "Right. Duty calls."
---
The grand hall of the Luminaries Temple was even more packed than usual that evening. The air was thick with incense, the sweet, smoky tendrils curling through the rafters, carrying whispered prayers and hushed hopes.
Rows upon rows of people—locals, travelers, and the ever-growing wave of refugees from the recent flood—filled the hall.
It was a suffocating press of bodies, all moving with a single-minded purpose toward the towering statue of the Holy Lord, their eyes alight with desperate devotion.
As she made her way inside, Elara felt a wave of revulsion wash over her, though she fought to keep her face carefully neutral.
The last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself, especially when her every fiber recoiled from the ceremony.
Everywhere she looked, faces lined with worry and exhaustion stared up at the Holy Lord's statue, hope mingling with fear in their expressions.
The refugees, in particular, stood out—clad in tattered clothes, their hands tightly clasped together, eyes wide and full of awe as they gazed at the stone visage that towered above them.
"They actually think this statue can save them," Elara muttered under her breath, scoffing. She forced her lips into a thin, pious smile, bowing her head as if in reverence. Inside, she felt nothing but disgust.
She tried to keep her expression from betraying her thoughts, but every fervent plea, every whispered prayer grated against her carefully constructed facade.
A woman nearby clutched her child tightly, her hands shaking as she whispered fervent words of gratitude. "Thank you, Holy Lord, for sheltering us in our time of need. Bless my son… please, keep him safe."
Elara held back the urge to roll her eyes. "If only she knew what the 'Holy Lord' really thinks of her," she thought, stifling a smirk.
She forced herself to take slow, deliberate steps toward the altar, feigning reverence.
Her gaze swept over the gathered crowd, observing the way the faithful clung to their beliefs, clinging to the temple as their last bastion of hope. It was almost pitiful.
"They're so easy to manipulate," she thought, a small, grim smile tugging at her lips. But her amusement faltered as her eyes drifted to the priests and priestesses moving among the crowd, their expressions serene and confident.
She sensed the potency radiating from them—their cultivation levels were indeed growing stronger. That strange, unsettling aura was unmistakable, a dark energy that tingled at the edge of her perception.
Something's changed, she realized, a chill creeping down her spine. They weren't just feeding off faith as they had before; there was something else, something deeper and more potent amplifying their powers.
She felt an uncharacteristic stab of unease, a reminder of just how deeply the temple was ingrained into this city.
They had everyone convinced, even the newcomers, and if their power was growing, it was only a matter of time before they'd spread their influence even further.
Suddenly, a loud, piercing voice cut through her thoughts. "All gather for the evening blessing!" called one of the priests, his voice echoing through the hall.
The crowd surged forward, pressing closer to the altar, murmuring prayers with renewed fervor.
Elara found herself jostled in the press of bodies, her forced smile faltering as she was pushed forward.
Resentment bubbled up in her chest, and she cursed under her breath. "All of this for a statue? Really?" She glared at the Holy Lord's image, towering above them with its cold, unyielding eyes.
She wondered, not for the first time, what it was that made these people so willingly surrender their will to a lifeless figure.
"This whole farce is pathetic," she muttered under her breath, then quickly added aloud, "May the Holy Lord bless us all."
She threw her hands up in mock reverence, blending into the chorus of chants, but her words dripped with irony.
'I'd rather bless myself', she thought, clenching her fists to keep her irritation in check.
As the priest continued his invocation, Elara let her mind drift, trying to numb herself to the ceaseless chatter of prayers around her.
"Maybe Lucian's right," she mused softly, letting her eyes linger on the ceiling as if finding some kind of comfort there. "This whole place is crawling with people too brainwashed to see the truth."
Her words were barely a whisper, and yet they felt like a release—a quiet rebellion in a hall filled with unquestioning obedience.
But her gaze drifted back to the refugees, and her expression hardened. They're so easy to control, so quick to believe any scrap of salvation offered to them.
It should've been simple for her to sway them, to manipulate their desperation as she had with countless others. Yet her usual tactics had failed.
Something about the temple's new strength, the ominous power rising among its clergy, kept her at bay.
She clenched her fists, her gaze narrowing as she glanced around the hall. The fact that she couldn't get through to the refugees gnawed at her, a constant reminder of how much more work lay ahead.
"I can't let this go on. Not without understanding what they're doing," she muttered, tightening her grip on the ring that had become her anchor.
Elara took a steadying breath, forcing herself to appear serene, just another devoted believer in a sea of the faithful.
But inside, her heart burned with determination, even Lucian's disappearance wouldn't stop her from unraveling the secrets buried within these walls.
"Just wait," she whispered under her breath, letting her gaze linger on the statue. "Soon enough, this temple and everything it stands for will fall."