"Father, a divine servant has just escaped from the temple. Please, show me what to do," said the divine envoy, kneeling low with his white robe pooling around him.
Fear etched deep lines into his brow, the weight of his plea sinking into the floor like an invisible shadow.
Once, the God of Light had been known for his gentle smiles and warm, comforting presence. But that Father God, who inspired love and reverence, had changed.
Now, there was an unpredictability in his golden eyes, a sharpness that made his servants tremble. He had become a god of contradictions—his beauty and brilliance hiding a chilling indifference, his mercy now interwoven with moments of cold cruelty.
Few knew the truth. The gods had not left them; they had been ensnared by the God of Light himself, trapped under his dominion.
To the mortals below, his whims felt like salvation and destruction interwoven. He would let disaster loom like a storm over the continent, only to intervene at the last minute, saving it with a dismissive flick of his hand.
It was as though the world had become a mere game to him, a toy he toyed with when he pleased, then abandoned without a second thought.
And stranger still, he had begun collecting young men—pale-haired, blue-eyed, or dark-haired with dark eyes.
Their beauty made them prized possessions, yet once he brought them close, he would only glance at them before discarding them.
No matter how hard they tried to catch his eye, they would be met with a look as cold and unfeeling as marble, as if they were nothing but intricate, lifeless trinkets.
The divine envoy dared not lift his head. The silence that followed his report made his heart pound like a drum. Then came the response, low and indifferent. "Let it go."
The choice of 'it' instead of 'he' stung, even for the envoy. God the Father's disinterest was sharper than a blade. The angel pressed his forehead against the floor, voice quivering as he added, "It… stole one of your rings."
A pause. The God of Light, golden eyes darkening slightly as if a cloud passed through them, gave a sound that was half amusement, half apathy. "Is that all?"
His fingers, which could summon storms and split mountains, drummed once against the arm of his throne. A ring, taken by a mortal, meant nothing.
Understanding his mistake, the envoy's face paled as he rose and left, shame tightening his chest.
Never before in the long history of the heavens had a servant dared escape. The envoy imagined the boy, terrified and alone, running to a world that knew true suffering. What a pitiful fate awaited him.
Back on earth, Alastor returned from the council hall, the weight of his previous actions pressing heavily on his chest.
Alastor came back from the council hall and poured all the drugs that the second prince had given to Joshua into the drain.
As a brainless fan of the God of Light, he absolutely cannot do such a thing as making up an oracle. The guilt in his heart couldn't be added, he leaned against the windowsill, staring at the sinking sun as it bathed the horizon in soft, bleeding colors.
For an hour, then two, he sat there unmoving, eyes vacant and sad. Then, as if lightning had struck him, his gaze sharpened.
The confusion and pain vanished, replaced by a clarity that seemed almost feverish. Without a second thought, he turned on his heel and walked straight to the bathing chamber.
He stepped into the hot spring, robe and all, the fabric billowing around him as he sank down.
The warmth of the water enveloped him, but it was not enough to soothe the turmoil inside.
He buried his face beneath the surface, the steam rising around him like a ghostly shroud, hiding the twisted expression that came over him as he fought to contain the storm in his heart.
'I actually cried at a statue! Spent an entire day whispering sweet, desperate words to a piece of stone! And I clung to its ankle, sobbing like some foolish child!' Yeshua thought, his mind racing as memories replayed with painful vividness.
Embarrassment prickled his skin, sending shivers up his spine as he recalled the scene. The absurdity of it made him grimace, his reflection in the rippling water mocking him.
A grin, half-mad and full of self-deprecating humor, spread across his face. He winked at his own reflection, mocking the earnest devotion that had overtaken him.
He felt like a fool, an actor who had been swept away by the play, only to look back and see how ridiculous he had appeared. Even now, thinking about it made his insides churn with a mix of embarrassment and incredulity.
He blew a stream of bubbles, the childish action breaking the tension that had tightened his chest. Then, as quickly as it came, the humor vanished.
He rose from the water, droplets cascading down his face and chest, and his expression shifted to a serene calm.
The storm of emotions settled into a practiced peace. For the powerful blessings he had received that day, he reasoned, it was worth it.
If enduring such moments meant gaining strength, then he would continue, even if it numbed him to the core.
With this thought, Yeshua's heart steadied. He left the bath, not bothering to dry his damp hair, and slipped into bed, the cool sheets pressing against his warm skin a quiet.
*****************
Two weeks passed, and the air in the imperial city buzzed with anticipation. The 18th birthday of the second prince, William, had arrived—a day steeped in ceremony and the promise of change.
Once he received the holy baptism, he would be bound to a path that led him far from the capital.
For two years, he would journey through the realm, facing trials that would harden him into the leader he was meant to become.
This world, though cloaked in the splendour of noble courts and gleaming palaces, held deep shadows. Even the powerful were not immune to danger.
Without strength, even the highest-born could meet an unceremonious end, never seeing it coming until it was too late.
While light magicians were rare, warriors and sorcerers wielding other elemental powers were common.
Their might was unquestionable, yet even they could fall prey to the unseen dangers of monsters. These creatures, cunning and persistent, did not just attack head-on.
They sought out hosts, slipping into bodies like whispers, planting seeds of madness that bloomed without warning.
The most skilled and brave could become the most lethal threats when overtaken.
Monsters didn't target just anyone; they chose their victims carefully, shifting between potential hosts like dark currents in the water, biding their time.
Because of this, no expedition was complete without a priest of light, whose sacred role was both guardian and saviour.
During battles, they cast protective circles around their comrades, barriers that kept monsters from escaping or from corrupting the fighters mid-combat.
In the gravest moments, if powerful enough, they could purge the parasitic creatures from a possessed host, saving lives and restoring sanity.
In the entire Zayka Empire, only three priests of light held any notable power: the elderly bishop, the vice bishop, and Yeshua himself.
But the bishop's strength had weaken with age, and Yeshua, not yet an adult, was still learning the vast reaches of his gift. This left only the vice bishop to accompany the second prince on his perilous journey.
The ceremony began with solemnity, the bishop's voice strong despite his frailty as he blessed the second prince with holy words.
The light bathed William in warmth, anointing him with an invisible armour. When the sacred rites concluded, the bishop's task was done.
He departed the grand hall without pausing to speak to the king, the silence a sign of his focus and weariness.
Prince William's eyes, gleaming with newfound determination, flickered with surprise at the abrupt end. With curiosity sparked, he turned to a nearby servant, gesturing discreetly. "Bring Yeshua to me," he instructed, voice low but firm.
He wanted to speak with the young priest in private, away from the prying eyes and murmured speculations of the court.