Chapter 227: The temple

Annan watched closely as Zyren moved with unhurried precision, his crimson gaze fixed on the fallen Zygons.They lay sprawled on the ground, their monstrous forms twitching faintly, unable to move even a muscle though their eyes still flickered with desperate awareness.

It was clear they would rather flee, but Zyren’s presence anchored them to helpless silence.

With deliberate patience, Zyren crouched beside the first of the creatures and pressed his hand against its chest.

Annan swallowed, his throat tight as he saw fingers slide with impossible ease through flesh and bone as though the body were made of clay. A faint glow seeped through Zyren’s hand—black light that pulsed like a heartbeat.

One by one, Zyren pulled out smooth, gleaming orbs the color of midnight. Magic stones. Each pulsed faintly with power, as though alive.

Annan felt the wrongness of them even from where he stood; the stones radiated a heatless energy that pricked at his skin. He shivered but did not move, not even when Zyren’s hand emerged slick with otherworldly ichor.

The vampire lord shoved each orb into a small leather bag slung at his hip. The sound was muted, dull thuds against one another, as though the bag itself drank the noise.

Annan wanted to ask—what use was such a thing, what purpose did those stones serve?—but he forced the question down. It was not his business. To probe into Zyren’s secrets was to invite his wrath, and Annan valued his head too much to risk it.

So he remained at Zyren’s side, tense but motionless, his eyes darting constantly to the edges of the clearing. He could feel presences nearby, shadows pressing in, shapes watching from beyond the trees. They were not normal.

Not beasts. Not men. Every instinct in him screamed that they should flee before whatever lurked in the dark revealed itself.

When Zyren rose at last, his task complete, Annan released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

Zyren fastened the bag shut, its weight now heavy with stolen orbs. He did not bother to clean the ichor from his hands before turning toward the carriage.

"Should we head back?" Annan asked carefully, his voice betraying the tremor in his chest. His heart still pounded from the fight, the memory of the Zygons’ transformation clawing at him. They had been horrific—twisted flesh, snarling jaws, unnatural strength.

He knew, with bitter certainty, that he could have taken only one of them. More than that and he would already be in pieces.

"No." Zyren’s reply cut through the night like a blade. His tone was final, unyielding. "We’re not heading back. We’re heading to the next city."

Without hesitation, he strode to the carriage and climbed in. Annan, too relieved to argue, scrambled into the driver’s seat. He snapped the reins harder than usual, urging the horses forward, faster than he had ever driven them.

The road blurred beneath them, the forest rolling by in streaks of shadow. Night would fall before they reached the city, and with it would come greater dangers.

Annan’s grip tightened on the reins as his thoughts raced. Whatever awaited them ahead—it would be worse, he knew, far worse than the Zygons.

Yet alongside his fear came a strange relief. Zyren had felled the monsters with terrifying ease, plucking their hearts as though harvesting fruit. If Annan stayed close, perhaps he would survive what was to come.

As long as I don’t leave his side, Annan told himself. If I do... he might decide I am no different from the monsters we fought. A Zygon in disguise. He might cut me down without hesitation.

The thought was chilling enough to make him drive faster still.

Aira, meanwhile, entered the food hall clad in a white gown, her steps slow, her heart taut with quiet expectation.

She had come later than she had wished, but what startled her was not her tardiness—it was the sight of the nobles already eating, their silver goblets raised, their plates heaped.

Zyren was nowhere in sight. The emptiness of his seat confirmed what her heart had already guessed: he had no intention of joining them.

Aira steadied herself and crossed the hall. Despite the stares, she forced a smile as she took her place at the long table.

Relief washed over her—at least she had a seat. At least she belonged here, however tenuously.

The food before her was more generous than she had seen in weeks. No rationed scraps, no thin portions. She ate with quiet delight, taking more than she normally dared, savoring each bite. For once, she did not have to hold back.

When at last she set down her fork, satisfied, she rose to leave. But before she could step away, a voice cut through the chatter.

"Is my lady heading to the temple?"

Aira turned, surprised to find Lady Vivian standing there. The woman’s eyes, once aflame with fury, were calmer now, almost serene. Her tone, too, was softer than Aira had ever heard.

"If it wouldn’t be too much to ask, I would like to tag along." Vivian’s voice was polite, her words dipped in honey.

Aira’s stomach tightened. She did not trust this calm. She did not trust Vivian at all.

"I apologize, Lady Vivian," Aira said with a gentle smile, though her eyes were cold, "but I am already going with someone else."

Vivian’s composure did not falter. "I don’t think the temple would mind a little crowd. It is your coronation as the Messenger. They would welcome it."

A faint frown creased Aira’s brow. Annoyance sparked in her chest. How dare this woman, who had tried more than once to end her life, now press for favors?

"No," Aira said flatly. The word carried like a blade through the hall. She did not care how it sounded, or how others judged her for it. She had no need to bend. Soon, she would be gone from this castle.

Turning sharply, she left the hall, relieved when Vivian did not follow.

Rymora slipped into step behind her, silent as always, while Harriet—emerging from the second table—hurried to join them as they crossed the courtyard.

"I was surprised when a guard came to inform me that you..." Harriet began, but Aira cut her off with a shake of her head.

She climbed into the carriage and gestured for them both to follow. "My sister is going to join me," she said, the words directed at Harriet. Rymora already knew.


Rymora wore a simple white gown today, marking her kinship to Aira and aligning her presence with the purity of the temple. Harriet, in contrast, was dressed in black—an outfit suited more for battle than ceremony.

"I’ll join you," Harriet said suddenly, her tone firm. The declaration startled Aira.

"I don’t have anything. No home. No goal. You saved my life, so I’ll repay you before I die." Harriet’s gaze was steady. "There’s nothing more to it."

Aira studied her for a moment, then turned her face to the passing streets outside the carriage window. She did not answer immediately, letting the cityscape fill the silence: wide avenues, tall stone homes, families walking together, their laughter rising above the bustle. The sight struck her heart, stirring memories of her village. She felt the sting of tears but blinked them away.

"I accept," Aira said at last, her voice quiet but edged with steel. "But if you betray me in any way, I won’t hesitate to kill you."

Her eyes did not leave the window. The words were not spoken in jest. Harriet or Vivian—either one, Aira knew, she could slay without a shred of remorse.

The carriage rumbled swiftly through the city, and before long they reached the great temple.

Aira’s breath caught at the sight: a vast crowd pressed against the gates, their voices rising in deafening chants.

’Please, let them not be waiting for me,’ she thought desperately.

But the moment her carriage arrived, guards in gleaming white armor surged forward, forming a barrier to keep the people back. Their discipline was precise, their presence commanding.

Aira stepped down, and the crowd erupted.

"The new Messenger of Light!"

"God has sent another light to our path!"

"His will on earth, to heal us of our suffering!"

The cheers were wild, reverent, almost worshipful. Aira forced herself to remain grounded, to not be swept away by the tide of adoration.

From the temple’s great gates emerged a woman clad in white robes gleaming with golden thread. Her smile radiated warmth, her presence so serene it seemed almost divine.

"Welcome," she said, her voice like music.

"I am Serraphi," the woman continued, stepping gracefully forward. "One of God’s Messengers of Light."

Aira inclined her head politely. "My name is Aira. I am here for the coronation."

Serraphi’s smile deepened, and with a gesture she beckoned Aira forward. The guards parted immediately to allow Rymora through as well, and Aira’s heart eased at the sight of her sister being accepted without question.

As they crossed the threshold, Aira’s eyes widened. The temple’s opulence was staggering. Golden candelabras lined the walls, their flames steady despite the open air. Marble pillars stretched to a vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of radiant suns and winged figures. It rivaled Zyren’s castle—perhaps even surpassed it in grandeur.

The guards, too, gleamed in polished white armor inlaid with symbols of light. Their weapons shone unnaturally bright, humming faintly as if infused with power. Aira could feel their energy in the air, a prickle across her skin.

Serraphi guided her deeper inside, speaking as they walked.

"Each Messenger has been granted abilities by the God of Light. They are gifts far greater than the simple healing of wounds that priests can sometimes perform."

"Really?" Aira asked, curiosity stirring. "I thought priests could heal at will."

"No." Serraphi’s smile turned wistful. "Healing even one person is an exhausting burden. Few priests can manage it more than once without collapse."

Her words lingered in the air as they moved deeper into the temple.