That glance from Yeshua, cold and distant, no longer held the affection or sweetness of the past. It pierced William's heart, leaving him with a gnawing sense of dread.
An icy chill ran down his spine as he stood in the fading light of the hall, his hands clenching involuntarily at his sides. He lingered, rooted to the spot, as if hoping that Yeshua would turn back, that he might catch a fleeting trace of the warmth they once shared.
But there was nothing—only the echo of his own ragged breath in the silence. Reluctantly, he turned and walked away, each step heavier than the last, like lead weights dragging him into an abyss.
Far above, in the endless expanse of the celestial realm, the God of Light observed the scene with an expression that belied his usual composure.
Reclining on an ornate throne inlaid with radiant gems that shimmered like captured starlight, he was surrounded by a host of beautiful youths.
Their skin glistened like polished ivory, and their eyes sparkled with unspoken adoration. One young boy with flaxen hair poured ambrosial wine into a crystalline goblet, while another sang a hauntingly beautiful melody, the notes weaving through the air like golden threads.
Yet another rested at the god's feet, nestled against him with a serene smile that spoke of utter devotion.
But their admiration, their every movement and soft murmur, failed to reach him. The God of Light's eyes, usually filled with an indulgent warmth, were narrowed, fixed on a distant point below.
To any onlooker, he might have appeared lost in the contemplation of his wine, but a tension crackled in the air around him, subtle yet unmistakable.
Only the divine envoy, stationed not far away with vigilant eyes, perceived the subtle shift in the god's demeanor. The God's's golden eyes, usually calm as a still lake, darkened, turning to a molten shade of deep gold.
Tiny motes of blackness, like ink dropped into clear water, began to swirl and spread within his irises. The air grew taut, an invisible weight pressing down on the delicate, marble floors of the temple.
The envoy's throat tightened as cold sweat trickled down his temples, the droplets tracing silent paths down to his jaw.
He dared not speak, dared not move, knowing too well the devastation that could come when Father God's wrath was stirred.
Memories of his predecessor flashed in his mind: an unfortunate soul obliterated in a storm of divine fury, leaving no trace—neither bone nor the faintest whisper of a soul.
The envoy's hands trembled imperceptibly, cursing the unknown culprit who had provoked this sudden tension.
Before the storm could gather further, the great hall's towering doors swung open with a resonant thud, and Alastor strode in, his steps urgent yet graceful.
He fell to his knees, bowing so low that his forehead touched the cold, polished floor. His heart thudded in his chest, an anthem of worship and guilt that echoed in his veins.
His vision was filled only with the radiant figure before him—God the Father, bathed in an otherworldly glow, so brilliant that it was nearly blinding.
His devotion to the god was absolute, an all-consuming flame that devoured him from the inside. Despite the echoes of his past with the second prince, memories that were not truly his but haunted him nonetheless, Alastor's very soul quivered with an overwhelming sense of betrayal.
He had strayed, even if in spirit, and that was enough to make him shatter with regret.
A single tear, fat and glistening like a shattered pearl, rolled down his cheek and splashed onto the god's bare instep with an audible click.
Alastor squeezed his eyes shut, his dark lashes wet with tears, cheeks flushed from the rawness of his emotion. His lips, bitten to a near-bloody crimson, trembled as he whispered, his voice breaking with every word:
"My Father God, How shall I tell you, I almost lost my love for you after believing a thief's lie. my God the Father, I lost the most precious thing, That is devotion to you, For this I would rather endure the fire of hell's karma, to make up for it. my God the Father, I confess my fault to you, I beg you to forgive your poor child, The guilt and remorse in his heart are about to kill him!
my God the Father, please flog me, please scold me, please burn me, Then please continue to love me! Please continue to love me..."
His words, trembling and thick with remorse, resonated through the vast hall. The room seemed to hold its breath as Alastor clung to the god's ankle, his face pressed against the smooth marble of the throne's dais.
His alabaster skin was drained of color, the tears staining his cheeks making his pallor even starker.
The reddened hue of his eyes, rimmed with the exhaustion of unbridled emotion, only deepened the starkness of his distress. He wept, unabashed, like a child lost in a storm, vulnerable yet heartbreakingly sincere.
The thin line of his lips quivered, as if they could scarcely contain the torrent of guilt surging through him.
A solemn silence fell as the god's gaze softened, the dark motes in his eyes receding like shadows chased away by dawn.
The God of Light sighed, a sound so gentle yet profound that it seemed to echo with the essence of the cosmos itself. He leaned forward, a single, graceful movement, and with a fingertip, brushed away the tear that clung to the edge of Alastor's jaw, its silvery sheen catching the divine light.
In that touch, the tempest calmed, the tension in the air dissipating like mist beneath the morning sun.
He is only a 16-year-old child, so young and tender, barely touched by the cruelties of the world.
Sixteen—an age when innocence still lingers, when the dreams of childhood haven't yet faded into the practical coldness of adulthood.
How could he be expected to see through the labyrinth of darkness woven into the hearts of those around him?
The boy's naivety, the softness in his wide, tear-filled eyes, spoke of a purity too rare to tarnish. It wasn't his fault that he was deceived, ensnared by an evil schemer with a heart as black as pitch.
The God of Light felt the surge of wrath in him dwindle, melting like snow under the morning sun.
His golden gaze softened as he watched the boy, curled up like a wounded animal, sobbing in a way that shook his slight shoulders and made him seem smaller than he was.
The god's fingers tightened slightly on the arm of his resplendent throne, the desire to reach through the mirror's shimmering surface to cradle the weeping youth pulling at him with an almost painful force.
He imagined lifting the fragile child from his torment, drawing him close, and brushing away the streams of tears that cut wet paths down his cheeks.
This was not just a worshipper; this was his worshipper, his child. No force, mortal or divine, should be able to cause him such sorrow.
And despite the boy's brief straying from the path, his loyalty—rooted in a love as boundless as the skies—had grown stronger, tempered by the fires of remorse and revelation.
A bright, undying devotion lay at the core of the boy's soul, gleaming like a buried jewel uncovered by adversity.
The God of Light lifted one hand, ethereal and luminescent, the golden glow seeping from his fingers like liquid sunlight. It bathed the room in warmth, a radiance so profound it seemed to banish the very concept of shadow.
With a single touch, he sent the light through the barrier of the mirror, into the trembling figure, who gasped at the sudden, encompassing warmth.
The soft, unearthly light wrapped around the boy like a mother's embrace, chasing the tremors from his body and lifting the weight of sorrow from his fragile frame.
The boy, tears still glistening like dew on his dark lashes, paused mid-sob. His fingers brushed his forehead as if checking for the source of this unexpected comfort, eyes wide with wonder.
Slowly, a smile broke over his tear-streaked face, luminous and untainted, brighter than the divine glow enveloping him.
"Did you forgive me?" he whispered, voice choked with gratitude. His fingers traced the statue's features, each touch imbued with reverence. "I knew that a merciful God would forgive my faults. From now on, Yeshua will never look at anyone else but only at my Father. You are my everything, a treasure beyond measure."
His cheeks, though still stained by the tracks of recent tears, lifted in a smile so sweet it seemed carved from purest joy. He nuzzled the statue, the cool marble warming under the caress of his skin, his eyes misty yet sparkling with newfound devotion.