Chapter 85 - - 85 - To Defy the Heavens

Chapter 85: Chapter - 85 - To Defy the Heavens

The pale light of dawn crept through the cracks in the wooden shutters, casting thin golden stripes across the modest room. Xandra’s eyes fluttered open, consciousness returning slowly like tide crawling back to shore. Her gaze focused on the figure seated before her—a woman with hair like spun sunlight, draped in the pristine white and gold vestments of the high priesthood.

Xandra’s breath caught. The attire was unmistakable. This was no ordinary priestess.

Her eyes traced the familiar contours of that face—the gentle slope of the nose, the soft curve of the lips, the compassionate depth of those eyes. A face she had not seen in years, yet one she had carried in her heart like a sacred flame.

High Priestess Isalyn.

"You saved our village years ago," Xandra breathed, her voice trembling with recognition and joy. Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill. "I... I never thought I would see you again."

Isalyn’s smile was warm, maternal—the same smile that had comforted a frightened little girl. "Yes, I did." Her voice carried the gentle authority of someone who had long ago learned to carry the weight of others suffering. "You have grown so much. That little girl who used to follow me around, handing me bandages and asking endless questions... you’re now a woman who saves others. I am so proud of you."

Xandra’s heart swelled. "After I met you, my dream became clear. I wanted to become a priestess—to save people, just like you did. To be someone who could make a difference."

Then the memories crashed over her like a wave of black water. The screams. The fire. The monstrous horde descending upon her village. The faces of her neighbors—some she would never see again.

Isalyn’s expression shifted immediately, reading the horror blooming in Xandra’s eyes. Without a word, she reached forward and pulled the young woman into a fierce embrace.

"Do not worry, my child," Isalyn murmured against Xandra’s hair, her hand stroking soothing circles on her back. "Lord Lucien did everything in his power. He tried to save as many as he could. There were... there were some he simply couldn’t reach."

Xandra’s arms tightened around the priestess. She understood. She understood all too well the cruel mathematics of salvation—the impossible choices that had to be made when there was not enough time, not enough strength.

When Xandra finally stepped outside the small house, the morning sun hit her face, and she saw them. All of them. The entire village stood waiting, their eyes fixed on her with a mixture of relief and lingering grief.

She scanned the crowd, counting familiar faces. Something loosened in her chest. Only eight to ten villagers were missing. She had expected so many more.

Then her gaze found the fresh graves. Row upon row of newly turned earth, each marked with simple wooden crosses. The sight broke something inside her, and she fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face.

But even through her grief, she saw what the villagers had accomplished. The cathedral soldiers moved among them, their armor glinting in the morning light as they worked alongside the villagers to rebuild. New houses were rising—proper structures, sturdy and square. And at the edge of the settlement, a wall was being constructed. Stone by stone, they were building a future.

"Lord Lucien saved all of us," one of the villagers said, stepping forward. An older man with calloused hands and weary eyes. "He used all of his strength. Every last drop."

"He was drinking potion after potion," another added, a woman clutching a child to her chest. "I saw him. He wouldn’t stop. Not until everyone he could reach was safe."

"He saved the children and women first," a young man said, his voice thick with emotion. "Then he went back for the men. He kept going back. Again and again."

Xandra’s heart clenched. Lucien.

"I wish he would wake up," another voice chimed in. "Maybe he suffered a backlash. He drained his astral energy completely."

"Yeah, no matter how strong a realm master is, if his astral pool runs dry, he can collapse," a young woman said, her brow furrowed with worry.

Xandra listened to their words, each one carving itself into her heart. These were memories Lucien had implanted—a merciful fiction designed to bring comfort and unity. There was not a single truth among their claims, yet the faith in their voices was undeniable.

"Wh-what happened to Lord Lucien?" Xandra asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked to Isalyn, fear twisting in her stomach.

Isalyn had followed her outside, her face grave. "He has been unconscious for a week now."

Xandra’s blood ran cold.

"After saving everyone, he collapsed. Just fell to the ground," Isalyn continued, her voice dropping lower. "Perhaps... perhaps heaven is punishing him. For pushing beyond his limits. For saving those who were fated to die."

Xandra’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms. Heaven. The word tasted bitter on her tongue. She had spent her childhood praying to the gods, believing in their benevolence, trusting that they watched over the realms with loving eyes. She had admired the heavens, dreaming of one day serving them as a priestess.

But this? This was the reality of heaven’s justice? A man who gave everything to save others was struck down for his compassion?

What kind of cruel gods would punish such selflessness?

She didn’t realize she had been unconscious for a week as well until Isalyn mentioned it. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except seeing him.

"Can I see Lord Lucien?" she asked, her voice steady despite the storm within her. "Now?"

Isalyn studied her for a long moment. "Yes. But you should rest as well. Your body needs time to recover."

"No," Xandra said, shaking her head. "I want to see him first. The one who saved me and my home. The one who risked his own life for all of us."

She reached out and took Isalyn’s hand, her grip firm with determination.

Together, Xandra and Isalyn made their way through the village, followed by a silent procession of villagers. They stopped before another modest house—simple, shabby, nothing befitting a realm master. But it was where Lucien lay.

Xandra stepped through the doorway and her breath caught in her throat.

There he was.

Lucien lay motionless on a simple cot, his face pale and drawn. The vibrant energy that usually radiated from him—the warmth, the confidence, the mischievous glint in his eyes—was utterly absent. He looked so small. So vulnerable.

She had only ever seen him smiling. Offering advice with that easy charm of his. Watching over everyone with a watchful, protective gaze.

Seeing him like this—defenseless, diminished—was surreal. Wrong.

Xandra moved to his bedside and sank to her knees. Slowly, reverently, she reached out and took his hand in hers. His fingers were cool, unresponsive.

The tears came then. Hot, bitter tears that streaked down her cheeks and fell onto their joined hands.

"I’m... I’m so sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "If only I had been stronger. If only I had been beside you when you needed me most."

She squeezed his hand, her entire body trembling with the weight of her helplessness.

"But I will become strong," she vowed, her voice growing fierce. "Stronger than ever. I will stand beside you. I will fight for you. And if I have to defy heaven itself to do it..."

Golden light ignited in her eyes—blazing, radiant, absolute. The air in the room seemed to thrum with power. Her resolve blazed like a sun, undimmed by any force in existence.

From that day forward, Xandra did not leave his side. She tended to him day and night—washing his face, changing his clothes, speaking to him as if he could hear her. She refused to let anyone take her place.

In a chamber elsewhere in the village, Isalyn and Celbeth sat across from each other, cups of steaming tea forgotten between them. The air was thick with unspoken questions.

Celbeth’s eyes studied the high priestess with sharp intensity. She had been told to cooperate with Isalyn, to work alongside her in Lucien’s absence. But there were things she needed to understand. And right now, with Lucien unconscious, Isalyn was the only one who could provide answers.

"What is this ’Innate Authority: Forsaken Divinity’ that Xandra possesses?" Celbeth asked, her voice low and serious. She set down her cup, all pretense of casualness abandoned. "I had assumed she was just an ordinary village girl."

Isalyn lifted her own cup, taking a measured sip before replying. "I thought so too. When she was a child, I never saw any sign of such power. But she’s always been... special." Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "No doubt that’s why Lord Lucien went to such lengths. Playing this farce—making himself unconscious for ten days—all so he could earn her loyalty and the gratitude of this village."

Celbeth leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. "So what is it? Some sort of physique? A bloodline trait?"

"It’s not a physique," Isalyn said, shaking her head. "It’s something they’re born with. Most people assume a priestess’s abilities come from her god and her faith."

Celbeth raised an eyebrow. "Is that not true?"

Isalyn’s smile turned enigmatic. "It’s only half the truth."

Celbeth’s eyes widened. "What?"

"An ordinary priestess devotes herself to a god, and in return, that god grants her miracles and skills. The stronger the belief, the stronger the priestess," Isalyn explained. "The gods also grow stronger from their followers devotion. But that is the standard arrangement. That is normal."

She paused, her gaze growing distant.

"The abnormalities begin when a priestess’s belief is profound—so deep it shapes the very core of her being—and then she experiences something that shatters that belief. Betrayal. Injustice. Cruelty beyond what she can bear. In such moments, she doesn’t just abandon her god. She rejects them. Hates them. Denounces them with the full force of the love she once held."

Celbeth listened, completely absorbed. "And then what happens?"

"When she forsakes the gods and turns against them, and her rejection is powerful enough—because she had loved them so completely—two things occur," Isalyn continued. "First, the gods suffer backlash. A wound in their divine essence, a crack in their power. Second, because she has created her own belief—because believing in nothing is still a belief, a faith in rejection itself—she becomes a candidate. A potential god herself."

She met Celbeth’s gaze. "No one can take that from her. It’s a seed that can only grow. And Xandra possesses this gift. If nurtured properly, she could one day ascend. Become a god in her own right."

Celbeth leaned back in her chair, processing this information. "When I first saw that girl, I never imagined she had such potential. No wonder Lucien is going so far as to feign unconsciousness." A wry smirk curved her lips. "And here I thought he just wanted to see those lovely curves of hers in action while dual cultivating."

"Oh, that too," Isalyn said with an unladylike snort.

"I knew it!" Celbeth laughed, shaking her head. "That bastard collects women like trophies."

Isalyn’s laughter joined hers, warm and genuine. Then her expression shifted, turning playful, seductive. She leaned forward, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "So... have you cultivated with Lord Lucien?"

Celbeth’s eyes gleamed with mischief. "Not yet. He just teases me. Touching me here and there, Touching me, kissing me until I can barely think straight." She bit her lower lip, a flush creeping up her cheeks. "But we’re both always so busy. Even when we’re together—like here, even when we were at the cathedral—he’s consumed by his work. It’s infuriating." She sighed, a dreamy quality entering her voice. "But it’s fun. What about you?"

Isalyn’s cheeks pinkened slightly. "Just kissing. I was hoping for more, but then we saw this village under attack. The timing was..." She trailed off with a rueful laugh.

Celbeth winced sympathetically. "That must have been the worst. Especially when you had prepared yourself mentally for something so much more... enjoyable."

"Truly the most unfortunate timing," Isalyn agreed.

They fell into easy conversation, speaking as though they had known each other for years. And in a way, they had—both bound to the same man, both carrying secrets they could only share with someone who understood.

Isalyn felt a warmth spread through her chest. She had never had a confidante like this. Someone she could speak freely with, share her desires and fears without judgment. Celbeth felt the same. She had always hated boredom, craved excitement, and longed for someone who could match her intensity. In Isalyn, she had found a kindred spirit.

"To be honest," Celbeth said, her eyes sparkling with wicked delight, "I would love to see Xandra and Lucien in action together. I told him that the very first day I met her." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "But then that bastard Warrick Pasha had to attack and ruin everything."

Isalyn laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Who knows? Perhaps it will happen soon. I can see it."

Celbeth grinned. "You really do know me, big sister Isalyn."

Far away, in the opulent palace of Valtheria, two soldiers made their way down the winding stone stairs to the dungeon. One carried a tray laden with bread and water, the prison rations for the day. The other held a torch that cast dancing shadows across the damp walls.

They reached the cell at the deepest level—murderers.

The cell was empty.

The tray clattered to the ground. The soldier holding it stared in disbelief, his heart plummeting into his stomach. The door hung open, the lock broken.

The second soldier spun around, his face pale with panic. "Go," he ordered, his voice sharp with urgency. "Go and inform Queen Cynthia immediately. Prince Andrin has escaped."