The God of Light's desire to delve into the little believer's heart was almost unbearable, a pull that resonated deep within his being. His power allowed him to slip effortlessly into the souls of mortals, to pry open their secrets as if they were delicate petals of a flower. But with this one, his beloved, he couldn't.
Not that he feared it—no, it was the exhilaration of mystery, the rare thrill of not knowing that delighted him. It made his immortal, weary existence blaze with excitement, a rush so intense it was nearly suffocating.
A smile, soft yet steeped in ancient authority, curved the God of Light's lips as he watched the boy below.
Alastor, surrounded by the rippling black pool, sat still, his slender frame dwarfed by the sheer size of the ceremonial hall.
The play of torchlight danced on his damp skin, casting highlights in his platinum-blond hair, which clung in glistening tendrils to his temples.
His eyes were closed, dark lashes kissing his cheeks as he held his hands together, fingers interlaced in fervent prayer. The sight was so moving that the God of Light felt a pang of regret, that he couldn't hear those whispered invocations.
The dark waters of the trial pool surged around Alastor's waist, hissing like a pit of vipers ready to strike. Only the crown of his head and his small, pale hands, knotted in silent supplication, rose above the roiling surface.
The stark contrast between his stillness and the chaos around him made him appear both fragile and otherworldly.
The God of Light's fingers itched to reach through space and time, to plunge into the pool and draw the boy to safety, to encircle him in a protective embrace that would shield him from all harm.
Unable to resist, he extended a tendril of thought, weaving it with divine essence.
In a heartbeat, a luminous figure appeared in the grand hall, taking on form and substance that outshone the flickering light of the room.
Clad in robes of iridescent gold and silver that shimmered with each movement, the God of Light's projection strode forward, a cascade of celestial power following him like a spectral cloak.
The gasp of the onlookers; the guards, the priests, and the assembled faithful echoed in the vaulted chamber, mingling with the sharp scent of molten wax and ancient incense.
As he reached Alastor, the god's hand hovered above the boy's damp cheek, a gesture so tender. His fingertips, radiant as if carved from pure starlight, finally made contact, grazing Alastor's skin.
Warm, alive. The little believer remained in his prayer, eyes shut, mouth moving soundlessly.
The God of Light's heart twisted, caught between the desire to coax open those eyes and the reluctance to interrupt a moment of such profound devotion.
He traced the edge of Alastor's hair, feeling the silken strands slide under his touch before pulling back reluctantly, knowing that a stronger connection could disrupt the ritual and let the dark waters claim him.
The hall itself seemed frozen in time. The vice bishop, eyes wide and pupils shrunk to pinpoints, let out a strangled breath.
His mouth, forming the syllables of a forbidden incantation, fell silent as the ethereal being raised a single, slender finger to his lips.
It was an impossible beauty, a perfection that no living being could claim. For the first time in his life, the vice bishop knew terror so profound it made the air taste metallic.
"Who are you?" The bishop's voice cracked with panic, sweat beading along his temples as he struggled against invisible chains binding his limbs. His robes, once immaculate, crinkled as he strained, muscles trembling beneath layers of embroidered silk. H
e cast a frantic glance toward the golden Holy Arrows of Light, their magic dormant now, useless in their hands. "Are you the Demon King of the Dark Abyss?"
The luminous figure said nothing, only pressed its fingers against its lips once more. The gesture was as commanding as a spoken decree, sealing their ability to speak.
The bishop and the vice bishop felt their throats tighten, voices strangled into silence, as though the very air had hardened around them. They stumbled back, bodies rigid and unyielding, and realised with dread that their legs refused to obey, the sacred hall now a cage of their own making.
Panic seized the room; even the most devout followers shivered, their robes rustling like dry leaves in a storm.
The God of Light, in his radiant projection, spared them no more than a passing glance. His entire being was focused on Alastor, the little believer who, amidst the chaos, remained tranquil, illuminated by an inner light that outshone the holy flames of the altar.
The divine projection stood sentinel, a silent guardian, while Alastor's low, impassioned prayer continued, too sacred and personal for even the god himself to intrude upon.
What a terrifying ability to instantly restrain two bishop-level priests of light? Their eyes widened to the limits were full of despair.
Their chests rose and fell in frantic rhythm, straining against the suffocating silence that swallowed their voices.
The golden light that bound them was no ordinary power; it was suffused with an essence so pure and commanding that their souls quaked beneath its weight.
It felt as if the divine will itself had taken a vice grip on their very existence, rendering them helpless spectators to a scene that defied belief.
Then, amidst the rolling tension, a vision that could have only graced the dreams of the most devout played out before them.
The blond man, his hair a halo of sun-spun gold, moved with an elegance that seemed almost unreal, as if he glided on an unseen current of light. He approached Yeshua, his tall, regal frame bent forward in a gesture so tender that it made the stark lines of his divine visage soften.
The bishops' disbelieving gaze watched as he reached out, fingers stopping just shy of Yeshua's serene face, the touch so light it seemed he was caressing not skin but the very air that surrounded it.
The man's eyes, an exquisite blend of molten gold and fathomless black, shimmered with an emotion so intense it bordered on reverence.
His gaze swept over Yeshua's features—the graceful slope of his nose, the gentle curve of his parted lips—and the deity's expression deepened with a warmth that sent a shiver through the silent hall.
When the god bowed his head and placed a kiss at the center of Yeshua's brows, the act was imbued with both divine blessing and an intimate devotion that defied explanation.
His expression is so gentle, his eyes are so loving, as if he is watching his child, and as if he is watching his lover.
He looked and looked, kissed and kissed, and because he couldn't contain the joy in his heart, his body radiated golden spots of light.
A pulse of radiant energy spread outward from the contact, sending a shockwave of luminous golden spots cascading through the chamber.
The spot of light contained powerful divine power, and when it touched the bishop and the vice bishop, it burned through their skins, but it did not hurt Yeshua in the slightest, but instead, the lights sank into him, merging seamlessly with his being, as if welcomed by an old, secret kinship.
Yeshua's lips quivered upward, a faint smile blooming across his face, hinting at a comfort so profound it was nearly blissful.
The god's heart thrummed in response, a resonance of joy that spread through his chest like a sunrise breaking over dark, ancient mountains.
He chuckled, his thick and sexy voice enough to make everyone go crazy for him.
He picked up a strand of Yeshua's hair and wrapped it around his fingertips, quite fond of it.
With a smooth, almost languid motion, the god lifted a lock of Yeshua's hair, winding it around his fingers as if memorising the texture.
The strands caught the light, refracting it into a thousand pinpricks of silvery luminescence, sparking a play of light and shadow on the polished marble floor.
The god's smile turned contemplative, an emotion that bordered on possessiveness flickering in his eyes.
A subtle shift in Yeshua's brows, a small furrow, a soft murmur, hinted at wakefulness.
The god's expression shifted in an instant, from enraptured joy to an anxious tautness.
He released Yeshua's hair with a sigh, the silk slipping from his grip like water, and began to pace the hall, every step leaving a slight shimmer in his wake as if the floor itself hummed beneath his presence.
When he passed the five-metre-high statue, he saw the ordinary face of the middle-aged uncle of the so-called God of Light.
'It's not him at all!' As long as he thinks that Yeshua pours out his love to it every day, but keeps calling his name, he can't wait to destroy this statue and the temple of the Zayka Empire!
He suppressed the urge to let his power flare and obliterate the sculpted stone into oblivion.