But the little believer was in the temple, his fragile frame shrouded in the soft, golden glow of candlelight. His eyes, wide and innocent, reflected a steadfast devotion that could melt the hardest of hearts.
The god's simmering rage threatened to shatter the serene sanctity of the temple, but he paused, his ethereal features hardening into an expression of reluctant restraint.
He exhaled a breath laced with divine patience, and with a sweep of his flowing sleeves, a statue emerged beside the altar.
The sculpture, immaculate in its craftsmanship, depicted him seated regally on an ornate throne, a symbol of authority and silent watchfulness.
The deity turned and made his way back to the edge of the trial pool, his movement as fluid as liquid moonlight. His fingertips, glowing faintly with an unearthly light, pointed at the vice bishop took back all the power of light in his body.
In a moment that stretched into eternity, he reclaimed every ounce of luminous power he had previously imparted. Then, with an unexpected tenderness, he leaned forward, brushing his lips lightly against the forehead of the young believer.
The gesture was both a blessing and a silent promise. A surge of pure, pristine energy flowed into the youth, its radiance lingering like an afterimage before dispersing into the ether, leaving behind a whisper of divinity that shimmered before fading into invisibility.
When Yeshua stepped from the pool, the liquid shadow of the dark waters pulled away as if repelled by some unspoken command. Not a single droplet marred the silken purity of his robes or the smooth expanse of his skin.
He seemed untouched by any earthly stain, an icon of untouchable grace. He draped his ceremonial robe around his slender frame, the fabric catching the glimmer of the temple's light, casting shifting patterns along its folds.
He approached the bishop and vice bishop, their figures frozen, expressions twisted with a blend of reverence and fear, eyes wide as though haunted.
"Master Bishop, Master Vice Bishop, what happened to you?" Yeshua's voice, soft and melodic, cut through the oppressive silence.
The bishop's lips moved, quivering without sound, his throat straining against the weight of the unutterable. After a moment, he stammered, eyes darting with the terror of forbidden knowledge.
"Just now we saw…" But his voice, as if choked by an invisible hand, faltered. He swallowed, and again tried to speak, "Just now…" Yet, whenever he brushed the edge of revelation, the words vanished, disintegrating into the heavy air as if erased by some celestial decree.
The unspoken truth clawed at the bishop's mind: these were forbidden words, sealed in divine silence, a ban that not even the most pious dared break. The bishop's chest tightened with the dawning realisation—had they truly witnessed the God of Light?
He looked at his adopted son, a storm of reverence and fear swirling in his heart. He recalled a tale whispered only in the deepest corners of the temple's shadowed halls. A thousand years ago, an envoy, with eyes cold as the winter sea, had traversed the land in search of beauty fit for the Father.
The standard was exacting: young men with hair like sun-bleached silk or night-tinged ink, eyes that mirrored skies at twilight. They were taken, chosen to bask in divine favour, a practice that raised them to almost mythic status among their peers. But the fervour waned.
The Father, it seemed, grew tired of mortal offerings and ceased sending his envoys. The young men, once the pride of their temples, were no longer summoned.
Time buried those days under layers of obscurity until they became more legend than history. Now, looking at the youth before him—Yeshua, just sixteen, with the fragility of a petal and beauty that seemed sculpted by the gods—the bishop felt a chill race down his spine. Hair as brilliant as spun silver cascaded around him, catching the light like liquid stardust.
He is clean, pure, immature, and beautiful. After the trial, he has proved that he has the most pious heart and the most transparent soul. It doesn't seem so strange that he could be blessed by the Father.
Where he stood, the gloom seemed to tremble and recede, chased away by an invisible sun. Yeshua embodied purity, a soul untouched by the corrosion of the world.
After enduring the trial, he was marked not just by the strength of his faith, but by a divine favor that transcended human understanding. The bishop's eyes, lined with newfound awe and fear, reflected a revelation he dared not voice.
The bishop's mind, once a storm of apprehension, gradually found its peace, and a glimmer of satisfaction softened the deep lines of his face. The vision of an ascendant future for the Zayka Empire spread out before him like a sunlit vista.
The priests of light, who once relied solely on their fervent prayers to draw even the faintest threads of divine power, were now witnessing something unprecedented.
Devotion had always been the cornerstone of their strength, and piety their measure. But what he had just witnessed was beyond that—an unmistakable sign, rich with divine meaning.
He recalled the tender, almost reverent expression that had graced the face of God Father when he gazed at Yeshua, and a shiver of awe coursed down the bishop's spine.
This was not a simple act of divine favour; it was something deeper, more profound. The possibility that God Father's chosen might rise from the very heart of the Zayka Empire was exhilarating.
The mere thought of it sent a rush of warmth through his chest, making his pulse quicken.
His gaze softened as it rested on Yeshua, his adopted son. The flickering torches of the hall cast a golden glow on Yeshua's peaceful features, accentuating the young priest's serene beauty and the soft luminescence that seemed to cling to him even after the god's departure.
The vice-bishop, meanwhile, felt as if the marrow in his bones had turned to ice. Fear carved hollows beneath his eyes, and disbelief twisted his mouth into a tight line. His mind rebelled against what he had seen.
The figure of God Father—radiant and impossibly beautiful—bending so gently over a mortal priest, kissing his forehead with a touch that spoke of deep, unfathomable love. It was inconceivable, blasphemous even. The divine was untouchable, aloof from mortal concerns. How could this be?
Yet, the evidence was seared into his very flesh. The singed patches of his skin stung with a pain that pulsed with every heartbeat, a relentless reminder of the divine retribution he had courted.
A shudder ran through him as he looked at his hands, the skin raw and scorched where the divine light had struck. He clenched his teeth, his face paling as the full weight of his crime settled like a millstone on his chest. The truth was irrefutable: he had tried to kill the object of God Father's favour, and God Father had descended in all his splendour to stop him.
'This is the end,' he thought, his mind spinning into a vortex of despair. 'To be stripped of divine power is the greatest punishment for a light prist. 'The realisation crashed over him with the force of a tidal wave.
The light within him had flickered and died, a silent confirmation of his guilt. Without it, he was no longer a vice-bishop, no longer a servant of the divine, but an outcast, condemned by both heaven and the Holy See.
His legs buckled, and he collapsed to the cold marble floor with a thud that echoed through the hall. The sound cut through the heavy silence, a physical manifestation of his downfall.
The bishop's indifference stung as much as the divine burns. A silent order was given, and two warriors, clad in silver armour embossed with the emblem of the sun, stepped forward.
Their movements were brisk and efficient as they lifted the vice bishop, now limp with defeat, his robes trailing behind like the shadow of a life that was no longer his.
"I declare," the bishop's voice resonated through the hall, steady and unyielding, "that the Zayka Empire Temple expels Collain Gale for the crime of blasphemy. All property and honour once bestowed upon him are revoked.
He is to leave Gagor within the hour and will never return in this life." The finality of the decree rang out, leaving a void that no one dared to fill with words.
The warriors marched the disgraced man out, their steps echoing on the marble as if punctuating the end of his reign. Colin's eyes, once sharp and ambitious, now stared ahead vacantly, hollowed out by the knowledge of his irreversible fall.
In the hushed aftermath, the air seemed thicker, charged with a lingering hint of divine presence. The flames of the torches flickered more brightly, casting long, trembling shadows on the carved walls.
Yeshua, still enveloped in the subtle glow that marked the god's touch, lay silent, unaware of the upheaval his mere existence had wrought. The bishop's gaze remained on him, filled with hope and reverence, as if seeing not just a boy but the future of their empire and the divine blessing it might yet bring.