Well, that's done then."
Selicia's voice was calm, but there was a flicker of satisfaction on her lips. She stepped out of the Taskhand building with the confidence of someone who had achieved exactly what she came for. The morning light glinted off the polished wood of her carriage as Wanora stood at the steps, watching her off.
It was still early—too early for goodbyes to feel final.
"Did it go well?" I asked.
Wanora turned to me, the morning breeze brushing strands of her hair against her cheek. "Yeah, Heide. It went well. Now that this is done, let's go to our locations."
The others had left much earlier, They'd take longer to reach—of course they would. But we were closer. Our routes were shorter, our purposes more direct.
Wanora turned to Shalap, giving him a small nod. "Thanks, Shalap. Take care."
Shalap shrugged, that familiar amused glint in her eyes. "Of course. Just take me along next time or something."
"Yeah." Wanora smiled again, Without saying more, she stepped forward, boots clicking faintly against the stone. I followed her until the path forked.
"Well," I said, pausing. "I'll be leaving. Temple of Thalos."
She gave me a glance, nothing more. Then we walked in opposite directions—two figures splitting under the gaze of the same sun.
---
Thalos.
A god sculpted by myth and rebellion. He was once said to be beautiful beyond mortal measure—eyes like still water, a voice that calmed wars. In the ancient texts, they called him the God of Life, not because he merely preserved it, but because he fought death itself.
Where others spoke of balance—life and death, creation and ruin—Thalos saw death as an error. A flaw in design. A punishment that no soul deserved. So he defied the heavens. To him, all life was sacred, and no life should end.
He sought to gift immortality to his followers, weaving soulcraft and divine essence into flesh. The angels called it heresy. War broke out in the higher planes. Light clashed with light, and in the end, the god of Life was banished to the mortal world.
Some believe he ascended again. Others claim he never left. His temple remains.
---
The Temple of Thalos was alive in a way that stone and scripture shouldn't be. I reached just past noon; the plaza buzzed with the familiar dissonance of sacred ground—children playing under murals of war and peace, merchants calling out beside silent prayer, and the scent of incense hanging like fog.
Priests in pale ivory robes moved between visitors, offering guidance, words of peace, blessings to the ill and forgotten.
I stepped through the threshold, the arch above etched with Thalos' emblem—a hand cradling a flame.
One of the younger priests turned as I approached. His face was serene, the sort of calm only years in service could shape.
"Where can I meet the head priest?" I asked. "I'm Heide Decimus from Taskhand. We appointed a meeting earlier."
The priest gave a small, reverent smile. "Ah, yes. You are expected. Please follow me, Sir Decimus."
His voice carried that gentle voice common in clergy. Every word he spoke felt like it passed through filtered air, softened and deliberate. As we walked, I looked around the temple.
It… really looked more like a church. Benches, rows of candles, stained glass that filtered the divine into color. The ceilings were high and arched, supported by columns carved with Thalos' deeds.
I muttered under my breath, Did the creator of Ethereal Love just try to change the usual trope by calling it a temple instead of a church?
Still, it was fancy. Almost too fancy for a god that was supposedly cast down for loving too much.
We reached a door. The priest opened it and gestured me in with a humble bow. I stepped into a modest, sunlit room—and there he was.
Vasalir.
The man I saw when I was young, back when He'd grown older. Sharper, More handsome? The weight of faith suited him now. Head Priest, huh?
"You must be Heide Decimus from Taskhand," Vasalir said, standing up.
"Ah, yes."
We shook hands. His grip was firm, but not forceful. A priest's handshake—welcoming, never dominant.
"I would be happy to form an alliance with Taskhand," he said. "Seeing how Lady Wanora seemed like a great believer of Thalos."
I paused. Then laughed. "She did, huh?"
He chuckled too, unaware. Or maybe aware, but too kind to say. I knew for a fact Wanora didn't worship anyone. Her ego was too big for that. The idea of her lying to a priest—it was almost comical.
No way she lied to a priest... right?
Vasalir stood and nodded once. "Please wait here for a while," he said with a smile, then exited the room with that slow grace only men of faith could pull off.
I was alone, but not quite. In the corner, a candle flickered beside an idol of Thalos—stone eyes watching me. The god who loved too much, who refused death.
I leaned back.
The main protagonist of Ethereal Love. The one who had the Clarion of Instinct.
She had the biggest advantage life could give—certainty. Every choice life threw at her, every fork in the road, it didn't matter. She always knew the right path. Multiple choice? Easy. Reading people? Even easier. She could look someone in the eye and just know—who was good, who was bad. Who to trust. Who to run from.
And she had met Vasalir.
She met every priest. Every holy man draped in robes and rituals. Every one of them smiled their practiced smiles and folded their hands in prayer—and she saw straight through them. Every time.
And she said they were good people.
She said he was a good person.
So I should be safe, right?
I should be safe…
But then why—
Why am I getting this feeling of dread just looking at Vasalir?
Something is watching from beneath the robes.
Something is smiling with his face.
Something's wrong.