The streets of Vandor were thick with tension.
The air reeked of incense and hypocrisy. Holy winged banners fluttered from polished spires, sunlight kissed cobblestones scrubbed spotless in honor of the Church's holy festival… yet even the most pious could feel it—beneath the surface, something had shifted. Something cracked. Something swelled and stirred like a living serpent of whispers, slipping silently across the kingdom's collective mind.
And then she walked.
V's steps echoed down the Grand Avenue, where whispers traveled faster than sound. Her cloak—a dark crimson veil of authority and defiance—dragged along the path like a bloodstain no one dared to clean. The red gothic dress she wore shimmered subtly, laced with spell-thread embroidery that blurred her identity to mortal eyes. But not to those who mattered.
The faithful looked away.
The hungry looked closer.
And the damned slaves? They bowed their heads in silent recognition.
She passed a group of priests in white. They stared, said nothing. One of them—a younger acolyte—made the mistake of locking eyes with her. He flinched when her gaze pierced him like a stake. V smiled slightly, not at him, but at his soul. It was already cracking, and of course, his little peepee woke up startled.
The crowd thickened near the execution square.
Cries of "Heretic!" and "Traitor!" filled the air like flies over rotting meat. At the center of it all, chained to a massive marble pillar carved with radiant wings, was the man she'd come to see.
Leonardo.
He was no longer a chapter master. No longer a knight. No longer even a man, by the Church's reckoning. His armor had been stripped from him, piece by sacred piece, and replaced with tattered rags soaked in blood and ash. His long, sun-bleached hair hung in tangled knots over his face. His wrists, shackled high above him, were raw and bleeding where the enchanted chains gnawed at his angelic blood.
'Tonight I'll pay you a visit.'
That was all V thought before disappearing in the crowd like smoke.
One of her maids heard a Church knight chatting with his friend that in the evening he would be in the group responsible for transporting the traitor in secret to the small prison north of the city, where he would spend the night, and in the first light of the next day, be taken to the Church's holy temple.
Paying a visit to the fallen knight in his small cell was the best option. V had one goal in mind for Leonardo.
An alliance.
That was the only outcome worth the risk. Leonardo had protected elves from a Church order, after all. What other knight was out there—brave enough, stupid enough—to step into the same pyre of blasphemy and dare challenge the Holy Order?
There were none, as far as V knew. Only cowards.
'If an alliance is not an option, then... vampirism.'
...
Reaching the meeting location, The Gilded Cup, a luxurious place that served many things from cakes to drinks, only for the high nobility of Vandor.
Inside, everything and everyone looked like it belonged to the great houses of the old.
'Oh~... What a nice place.'
The Gilded Cup lived up to its name—a sanctum of silk-draped chandeliers, velvet-lined walls, and golden-trimmed furniture polished to a divine gleam. Nobles lounged like cats fat on power, sipping honeyed wine from crystal goblets and whispering poison behind painted fans. Their smiles were sharp, their perfumes sharpest, and their curiosity sharper still.
However, all eyes turned to V the moment she stepped inside; her presence drowned the room.
It wasn't her beauty—though that was undeniable, in the way moonlight is beautiful when it spills across a graveyard. It wasn't even the power she radiated, subtle but suffocating, like perfume laced with arsenic. No, it was something deeper, like a higher being just decided to step into the room and mingle with them—lowly humans.
Even the ones who deeply believed in Uriel got their belief shaken. And for a split second, they thought the angelic goddess descended using an avatar.
V scanned the opulent crowd, making mental notes—nobles, merchants, local landowners, all of the wealthy and prestigious. The hostess—a plump, rosy-cheeked woman with too many rings and not enough spine—hurried forward with a nervous bow.
"M-Milady, how may I be of service today?" She showed her utmost hospitality to the new patron. The woman in question had to look twice at the exquisite beauty with silver hair, her nerves shaken to their very core, all words dried up like blood under a hot midday sun.
'This is no ordinary noblewoman.'
V could practically taste her fear, then she inclined her head. The gesture, simple and slight, was powerful. Polished. Lethally poised.
"I'm supposed to meet someone here, room nine."
"Eh?" The hostess blinked, swallowed, then nodded so quickly her chins wobbled. "O-Of course, Lady…?"
"..." V did not answer. Names were power, and she did not give hers freely. Instead, she simply turned her head, a gesture that dismissed all further questions.
"R-Room Nine," the hostess stammered, flustered, and gestured toward the sweeping staircase wrapped in velvet ropes. "Second floor, east wing. Allow me to—"
"No need."
V's voice was silk over steel, soft enough to charm, sharp enough to cut. The hostess stopped mid-curtsy as V moved past, her heels clicking faintly against marble, the red of her cloak dragging shadows where no light touched.
As V climbed the steps, a hush followed. Conversations stuttered and fell silent. Nobles forgot their masks for a heartbeat. Lust and fear bloomed in equal measure in their gazes. Even the painted whores in discreet corners stopped fluttering their lashes. Everyone knew—on some instinctual level—that something divine and dangerous had just passed through.
Room Nine waited at the end of the corridor. Inside, the room was cozy and decadent: low light, plush red seats, silk curtains, and a faint aroma of myrrh and wine in the air. By the fireplace sat her contact. A woman in a black cloak and hood.
'An invisibility cloak? No, this is probably her magic.' V instantly sensed the unusual magical power, messing with the light around the cloaked woman. Even with her daywalker eyes, V was unable to keep a good image of the cloaked person. Something compelled her to look away, and the moment she did, she would forget anything related to the cloaked woman.
"Lady V," she said, rising from her seat and canceling her magic, revealing her face.
Her golden hair was loose, a shining mantle across her shoulders and back. Her face and figure were made to tempt, her body hidden behind a tight black leather armor. Her golden eyes shimmered brightly, observing and scanning V in the same way she did with her.
"Welcome, you honor me with your presence," the woman said with respect before offering a light bow. "My name is Liliana, the High Priestess of the Holy Church of Light."
V's brows shot up in surprise at Liliana's show of respect, wondering why she was acting this way to the point of even bowing.
The reason was simple. When Morgana contacted Liliana, informing her that V had reached the city and to set up a meeting between the two, Morgana said something that shook Liliana to the core.
"Take the key from my daughter V."
Those simple words alone gave Liliana pause at the thought of encountering V. Her goddess had a daughter—a demi-god for sure—and now that same daughter was standing in front of her with the key to the goddess's holy temple.
Liliana never experienced this type of fear from simple words—that she would need to face this daughter of her goddess. Yet next to the fear, there was joy.
Every interaction Liliana had with Morgana had left her craving the divine warmth, the affection, the very essence of the goddess herself. Moreover, Morgana didn't act the way other gods acted; she was more like a friend who lent a hand, a friend who teased you, and played a joke on you. And Liliana wanted more—her longing to feel Morgana again was more intense with every passing day.
Even if Uriel herself descended and begged Liliana to believe in her again, Liliana would simply tell the goddess, "Get lost and take your holy gospel with you."
Why would she go back and believe in a goddess that never spoke back to her, never comforted her in moments of need?
Why would she abandon her real goddess, who smiled, flirted, caressed, and even promised to have an intimate moment with her, and carry her divine child?
Why indeed.
"..."
V said nothing and kept staring at the High Priestess, lost in her thoughts. Liliana recovered almost immediately and decided to invite V to take a seat and relax a bit.
"You look tired, Lady V. Please sit and let me show you the hospitality that Vandor is famous for."
"Sure, why not?" V took a seat, letting a small sigh escape from her crimson lips.
After asking for a glass of blood-red wine, they began chatting a little. First, they spoke about the city, then the weather, before the conversation took a serious turn.
To Morgana and her horny activities. And in less than three minutes, their faces were redder than the wine they were drinking.
"L-Let's get to the business, Liliana." V was the first to speak, stuttering a bit. Liliana's experience in that old temple with Morgana had opened a wound. A horny wound with divine lust and white-hot heat that wouldn't let her focus for more than one minute without having her mind wander to her beloved Mother.
"Yeah..." the High Priestess, the devotee, and the number one—in her eyes—follower of the horny goddess herself said, trying her best not to let her embarrassment show or worse, her real thoughts.
"A-As you wish, L-Lady V."