As a sacrifice to the God of Light, only the most exquisite offerings would suffice.
Behind the Temple of Light, sprawling orchards stretched out like a lush sea of green and gold. Each tree was heavy with fruits that seemed to shimmer under the afternoon sun, their skins taut with ripeness.
Apples gleamed like polished rubies, grapes clustered like amethysts strung together, and oranges exuded a citrusy perfume that perfumed the warm breeze.
The orchards were a testament to the temple's prosperity, with every tree meticulously tended to by skilled plant mages. These mages wielded their magic with a deft touch, ensuring that the fruits were not only perfect in taste but brimming with vitality.
As Alastor strode through the fragrant rows, the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant rustle of branches were the only sounds accompanying him.
The bright light played on his robes, making the gold embroidery shimmer like liquid fire. His expression was cool and detached, the face of one who bore the weight of divine expectation.
The plant mages, dressed in robes of deep green, paused in their work as they noticed the young priest's arrival. Their faces paled, eyes wide with surprise as they hastily bowed, heads almost touching the grass.
"Master Priest," one mage stammered, his voice edged with reverence and nervousness.
"I want the freshest fruit," Alastor commanded, his voice crisp and unyielding. "Preferably one that was picked just a second ago."
His gaze was sharp, and the plant mages could feel the weight of his scrutiny. Without hesitation, they moved swiftly, their hands expertly plucking fruits with a soft snap from the branches.
The mages placed baskets filled with glossy apples, plump pears, and sun-warmed peaches at his feet, their hands trembling slightly as they stepped back.
Alastor bent down, his slender fingers brushing over the fruits, the skin cool and smooth beneath his touch.
He picked up a peach, its blush deep and rich, and bit into it. The juice, sweet as honey, dripped down his chin, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Satisfied, he nodded, selecting the best specimens and arranging them carefully in his basket.
The fruit's scent mingled with the sacred stillness of the temple grounds as he made his way back.
Back at the temple, he approached the holy pond, an ethereal pool of water so clear it mirrored the sky with perfect clarity. Its edges were lined with lilies that bloomed snow-white, and a faint, otherworldly light emanated from beneath its surface.
Alastor dipped the fruits into the water, each submersion leaving ripples that glistened with a faint golden hue. As he lifted them out, droplets clung to the fruit, glistening like tiny diamonds before sliding down to join the pool again. He set them aside, the air now heavy with the mingled scents of citrus, earth, and holiness.
"Master Priest," a maid whispered nervously, watching as he moved with brisk precision.
She held a clay pot and began her demonstration, showing how the simple bread should be made. "Pour buckwheat flour and water, knead it into a dough, then twist a ball this size and press it flat."
Alastor's eyes widened as he watched her work, disbelief hardening his features. The plainness, the utter lack of care—it stung.
The clay pot's dull thud as she pressed it against the table echoed like an accusation in his ears. 'Was this bland, lifeless offering what they expected him to place before the God of Light?'
His jaw tightened, and the anger that flared in him was bright, scorching, a surge of indignation so fierce it nearly made his hands tremble.
"No," he thought. 'This is an insult.'
Is this the so-called vegetarian bread offered to God the Father? No seasoning, no resting, no styling, no fumigation, just wait for the drying to dry into a dough that is harder than a stone before offering it up? This is simply blasphemy against God the Father!
The soul of the brain-damaged soul freed him from his anger. He pushed the maid aside, called out all the cooking skills in his mind, poured flour and water in an extremely precise proportion, and covered the power of light in the palm of his hand.
He measured flour and water with the precision of an alchemist, the sound of the ingredients falling into the bowl a soft, rhythmic cadence.
Golden light sparked in his palms, swirling in delicate patterns that flickered and danced across the dough.
His hands, usually so steady in prayer, worked tirelessly, kneading with an intensity that bordered on reverence. Under the glow of divine power, the dough turned supple and smooth, pliant beneath his touch.
"Master Priest, why do you waste the power of light!" the maid's voice quavered, her eyes wide with disbelief and horror. Each flash of golden light was precious, a divine gift not meant to be spent on mundane tasks.
Alastor didn't stop. He didn't even look up. The light continued to pulse from his hands, seeping into the dough, suffusing it with a warmth that seemed to sing with a silent, holy hymn.
It was no longer just bread. It was an offering, imbued with devotion, as vibrant and unyielding as the love he held for the God of Light.
Today, when the power of light was becoming a rare and treasured commodity, cultivating a single powerful priest of light required the collective resources and devotion of an entire kingdom.
For this reason, priests were cautious with the divine energy coursing through their veins, hoarding it like gold, using it only in times of dire need. It was a slow, arduous task to replenish it, often necessitating years, even decades, of unwavering prayer.
Yet here stood Priest Alastor, exuding a feverish intensity, channelling the sacred power for something as mundane as kneading dough.
It was an act so audacious that the maids exchanged wide-eyed glances, shock written plainly on their faces. The golden glow around his hands flickered, bathing the dim kitchen in warm, shifting light that cast sharp, restless shadows on the stone walls.
Alastor's eyes shone with an unsettling fervour, as though lit from within by the very power he wielded.
The phrase "devotion" barely scraped the surface of what he felt; it was an all-consuming obsession.
His mind spun with a singular thought—God the Father deserved only the best, and any slight, any hint of mediocrity, was a dagger to the heart. To offer Him the bland, hard discs that passed for sacred bread was a sin Alastor could not abide.
His lips curved into a thin line as he spoke, voice crisp as frost, "What is wasting the power of light? Every drop I possess is a gift from the Father, and it is my duty to return His grace tenfold. From this moment forward, the preparation of offerings will be my responsibility alone."
The sudden sharpness in his tone sent a shiver through the room.
The two maids, initially paralyzed by his display, quickly retreated to the shadowed corners, their heads bowed and fingers trembling as they clutched their aprons.
They dared not make eye contact, lest they invite the heat of his glare.
Alastor's true essence, had lived countless lives, traversed realms where survival hinged on versatility.
Cooking was a skill honed over many incarnations, an art that spoke to the core of who he was.
His meticulous nature extended into every slice, every fold. To him, a dish was more than nourishment—it was a testament to care, a token of reverence.
He moved like a composer conducting a symphony, each motion precise and harmonious.
The scent of freshly milled buckwheat mingled with the soft, sweet aroma of mashed fruit, a fragrance so rich it clung to the cool stone walls.
Choosing the finest golden apricots and velvety blackberries, he mashed and strained them into vibrant, glistening juices that stained his fingertips.
The pigments seeped into the pale dough, which he separated and tinted with streaks of deep plum, sunburst yellow, and blushing crimson.
The two maids, initially spellbound, watched in stunned silence as he worked. The rolling and folding of the dough seemed almost like a sacred dance, each movement imbued with purpose.
When he moulded the dough into shapes, it was as if he breathed life into them—delicate birds with wings poised for flight, fish whose scales seemed ready to ripple, and blossoms so detailed they appeared to have been plucked from a meadow.
The flour-dusted tray looked like an enchanted menagerie, whimsical and radiant.
When only a sliver of white dough remained, Alastor's hands paused. A thoughtful crease appeared between his brows, and then, with a sudden spark of an idea, a soft flush swept across his cheeks.
He bit his lower lip and began to mould the dough gently, fingers working with a near-reverent touch.
Slowly, a tiny figure emerged—kneeling with hands clasped as if in prayer, its expression moulded with a delicacy that bordered on fragile.
Placing it with great care in the centre of the tray, he stepped back, chest rising and falling with quickened breaths.
The two maids' expressions shifted from initial shock to deep admiration, their eyes growing wide as they beheld the intricate offerings.
Yet, a dawning realization soon followed, turning their admiration into a stunned, wary silence. They exchanged glances that whispered of the unspoken: The priest's devotion has gone beyond devotion; it has breached the edge of sanity.
The kitchen was heavy with an almost sacred hush, broken only by the faint crackling of the hearth as Alastor stood, face aglow not just with the light of the room but with the embers of something deeper, brighter, and infinitely more perilous.