When William first laid eyes on Yeshua, he was stunned. He had always known that Yeshua was extraordinarily beautiful, with an otherworldly allure that could captivate anyone. But today, something was different.
Yeshua's presence seemed to radiate an almost ethereal glow, a quiet intensity that rendered the very air around him charged.
His features, usually soft and serene, now seemed sharpened, his eyes glimmering with an unfathomable depth that both drew William in and pushed him away.
For a moment, William felt as though he didn't belong in the same space. His breath caught in his throat, and a strange unease churned in his chest.
He had been used to the comfortable power of being a prince, but in this moment, standing before Yeshua, he felt small, insignificant—unworthy.
The discomfort made his heart race, a pang of anxiety rising in his throat, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he had no right to stand in front of someone so pure and radiant.
Yeshua's mere presence made him question himself, and the overwhelming sense of guilt that followed left him uneasy. 'Was he truly worthy of this priest's attention? The thought lingered in his mind like a shadow, gnawing at him.
"Yeshua," William's voice broke the silence, though it was quieter than he intended, almost hesitant. "Have you forgotten what you promised me? If I cannot secure the throne of the Zayka Empire, my royal brother will exile me to the frontier to fight the monsters. I might never return, and we may never see each other again. Do you really want that?"
His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of fear and uncertainty. William's gaze wavered, his usual confidence gone, replaced by a rawness that made his voice tremble.
The thought of being sent to the frontier—away from everything, away from Yeshua—was a fate he could not bear.
Not when everything he had worked for was at stake. Not when he feared that he might lose the one person who could help him.
Though Alastor had tried to suppress his own anger, to force his mind into a state of numbness, the prince's words did not go unnoticed. His eyes flickered with a mixture of resentment and anger.
He could still hear the way William had used Yeshua, twisting the priest's loyalty for his own gain. Alastor could see the prince now, standing on the precipice of his own self-doubt.
He was no fool. Alastor knew well enough that without Yeshua's help, William would have a much harder time claiming the throne.
He would be forced to fight without the divine backing that had once been so easily within his reach. The thought of watching him struggle without the priest's aid was almost satisfying. Almost.
But Alastor wasn't foolish enough to make a move too soon. He wasn't about to tear his face with the second prince—not when the ricks were so high.
The prince's future concubine, with connections to the god of light on one side and the god of darkness on the other, was untouchable.
Surrounding him were figures who could dominate the entire continent—beasts, elves, and the pope himself.
A confrontation with that powerful inner circle was something no one could survive.
To challenge them head-on would be nothing short of suicide. No, Alastor knew his best option was to outsmart them, to wait for the right moment, to bide his time. But damn it—his fists itched with frustration.
'I want to punch him.'The thought boiled in Alastor's chest like a seething cauldron. 'I want to smack that cocky face of his and watch him crumble. But I have to hold it in.'
Yeshua, however, remained unchanged. His tears, crystal clear and so pure, shimmered as they glistened at the corners of his eyes.
His expression was a picture of sadness, but it was not anger or bitterness that colored his features—it was an overwhelming sorrow, a deep, abiding pain that seemed to echo from the very depths of his soul.
His hand rose to cover his chest, as if trying to still the frantic beating of his heart, as though the very idea of betraying his God physically hurt him.
His voice was soft but filled with deep anguish as he spoke, each word laced with the weight of a guilt he could not escape.
"William," Yeshua began, his voice trembling with a deep, unshakable conviction. "How could you have the heart to let me betray my most beloved Father God? To fabricate oracles, to speak lies in His name… What kind of sin is this?"
His voice broke as he spoke the last word, and for a brief moment, it seemed as though he might collapse under the weight of his own words.
The purity of his faith, the unyielding devotion to his divine Father, was almost tangible in the air around him. He looked at William, his sapphire eyes brimming with crystal tears.
"Let the fire of hell burn me to ashes. But what terrifies me more than the flames, what haunts me in the deepest recesses of my soul, is the thought that I will lose my Father's care, that I will be cast out. I will become a blasphemer, a disgrace.
I will be forever marked with shame, shunned and stoned by those who once called me a servant of the light."
Yeshua's words hung heavy in the air, as if they were etched into the very fabric of reality itself. His sorrow was palpable, his grief a force that could not be denied.
"Is this the future you want for me, William? To push me into this abyss of despair?" His gaze met the prince's, piercing, unwavering. "William, I'm starting to wonder if you really love me at all."
The words hit William like a physical blow. His mouth went dry, and he found himself speechless. He had no answer.
The second prince was speechless. He didn't understand why Yesyua's head was sober after not seeing him for a few days. Yes, if he did, it was definitely the most likely scenario for him.
The vice bishop raised an illegitimate son abroad, and his reputation has been damaged, and he has lost the possibility of succeeding the throne.
Yesyua is the next bishop with firmness, and his rights are on par with that of the king.
It was too late for the second prince to coax him now, how could he tear his face with him, and immediately swear to God that he was not trying to injustice him, but that he wanted to be with him so much that he would not consider it, and asked him to forgive his mistakes.
Meanwhile, Alastor silently nodded to himself. He gave the second prince one last look—an unreadable gaze that seemed to pierce through William's very soul.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, his steps measured, deliberate. As he moved through the room, his thoughts churned with bitterness and frustration.
'Just you wait you bastard, I make sure to smack that cocky face of yours when I'm powerful enough.'