A small smile spread across Cel's face - the first genuine one in longer than he could remember.
The blessing. Finally.
After everything he'd endured, every nightmare survived, every wound that should have killed him - he was about to receive what he'd earned. What he'd bled for.
The moon hung full and radiant above, its pale light washing over the cracked earth of his soul's landscape.
"Please follow me, Chosen One." Selina's voice carried gentle warmth as she gestured toward the mist with graceful fingers.
Cel's breath steadied, though his heart quickened with something that might have been anticipation. He nodded once, that small smile still tugging at his lips.
She turned, white robes trailing across broken ground as she moved toward the mist with unhurried elegance. Cel followed, his bare feet padding softly against fractured stone.
They walked in silence through the transformed landscape. Small flowers with bluish-white petals bloomed from the deepest cracks, reaching toward moonlight. Jagged stones jutted up at irregular intervals - ruins carved into the depths of who he'd become.
Cel's mind drifted toward what awaited him.
A blessing.
Soon the goddess's power would be woven into his very being.
This power had always been a part of his world - expected, almost mundane among nobles. Divine gifts granted to those called by the gods, transforming the Chosen into something more than human.
But he'd never truly considered what they were. What it meant to be bound to a deity.
Three factors shaped every blessing - the foundation that determined what a Chosen One could become.
First: the nature of the god.
The Mountain God granted strength and endurance. The Storm Goddess gave lightning and wind.The Sun God's blessed were always strong, proud, radiant. Warriors who commanded fire and light.
He'd spent his entire life studying them, memorizing their achievements, listening to endless sermons about their legendary deeds.
But the Moon Goddess?
She was different.
Unlike other gods, each with an entire Clan devoted to them, the Moon Goddess had none. No bloodlines carried her favor. No buildings bore her name. She'd had few Chosen throughout history, and even fewer records of what they'd accomplished.
The reason was simple.
They had been weak.
Where other Chosen reshaped the world - commanding tides, healing mortal wounds, razing plains with fire - those who served the Moon Goddess had left no mark. Their abilities - whatever they'd been - hadn't shaken the world. Hadn't carved legacies worth remembering.
They'd lived and died as footnotes.
The irony might have made him laugh if it didn't make him so angry. Cast out by the people who raised him. Saved instead by the only deity he knew nothing about.
Selina's figure moved steadily ahead. The mist parted for her as though bowing in deference.
Cel watched her for a moment before his thoughts moved to the second factor:
The rank of the priest.
Unlike the rigid hierarchies found in most hierarchies, priestly ranks held no special titles, no formal order. A servant of the gods could be rank 1 or rank 100 - the number itself was all that mattered.
But that number meant everything.
The rank indicated proximity to their deity. How close they stood to the divine.
And which priest was sent to a Chosen One revealed how much the god valued them.
The gods dispatched their most trusted servants only to those they deemed worthy. A newly Called receiving a high-ranked guide? That was a declaration of divine favor - a promise of investment and expectation.
Conversely, someone of lower standing suggested... less. Not rejection, but neither was it embrace.
And this hierarchy directly influenced the quality of blessings bestowed.
At lower ranks, the paragons and artifacts granted were functional but limited - straightforward abilities within the deity's domain. Useful, certainly. Yet unremarkable.
Higher ranks yielded far more. Through a rank 40 priestess, a god might grant paragons that reshaped battlefields. Through a rank 10, they could forge legends whose names echoed through history.
At the pinnacle, the gods held nothing back. Paragons of devastating power. Artifacts of impossible grace. Blessings worthy of those they deemed truly exceptional.
Cel studied Selina's back as they walked. What rank did she hold? Her presence carried weight - certainty that suggested she wasn't newly appointed. But beyond that, he couldn't guess.
Priests only revealed such information after the first blessing - a rule dictated by the gods themselves for reasons mortals couldn't grasp.
His fingers curled at his sides.
And the third factor:
The compatibility between the deity and their Chosen One.
This was the part no one understood. Even the royal family, with their vast library and generations of recorded history, had no answer to why certain people were chosen.
Some claimed personality - that gods selected those who reflected their own nature. Others insisted on fate, predetermined and inescapable. And then there were those who believed it was arbitrary. That mortals were nothing but playthings for forces beyond comprehension.
Cel wasn't sure what he believed. Maybe all those theories were wrong. Maybe they were all right.
In the end, gods remained an enigma. Everything humanity claimed to know was guesswork dressed as certainty. Fragments stitched together over centuries.
Only the priests could claim true connection to the divine. And even they spoke in riddles, revealing only what lay within their god-given authority.
This secrecy made divine knowledge one of the world's most valuable commodities. Kings, warlords, scholars would pay fortunes for even the faintest whisper of celestial truth.
Everyone wanted answers. Few existed. And in that desperation, lies flourished.
His stomach churned with familiar revulsion.
False doctrines. Fabricated revelations. Entire faiths built on deliberate misinformation. Humanity had drowned itself in deception.
And every level of society fed the rot.
The nobles controlled access to knowledge, yes - they dictated who was worthy and silenced threatening voices. Their monopoly turned belief into power, worship into currency, gods themselves into weapons.
But the common people?
They weren't innocent victims.
False prophets rose from peasant villages, claiming divine visions for coins. Sects multiplied like weeds, each convinced they alone understood divine will - demanding obedience in exchange for salvation. Merchants sold 'artifacts' to the desperate - splinters of 'sacred' wood, water from 'blessed' springs, all fabricated for profit.
Faith twisted by greed became poison that seeped through the entire kingdom.
That was why understanding had stagnated. Why humanity, despite centuries of devotion, still grasped blindly at truth's edges. Because no one wanted truth - they wanted comfort, wealth, power, whatever lie served their needs.
Almost laughable. People begged gods for salvation while ensuring their own downfall.
And through it all, the gods remained silent.
Did they care? Or were they simply indifferent?
That question haunted him more than any other.
What if the gods saw exactly what he did?
Every lie, every corruption, every twisted doctrine - and remained silent because humanity had earned its ignorance. Not punishment. Just... consequences.
And Cel, no matter how much he wished otherwise, was part of that same corrupted race.
Would he be any different?
A bitter smirk pulled at his lips. He wanted to believe so.
But he knew better.
Lies weren't just tools of the powerful. Sometimes they were the only way to survive. If he returned to civilization, he'd wield deception as readily as those he despised.
He had to.
Ahead, Selina stopped.
Cel nearly collided with her before catching himself.
She turned to face him, white robes trailing through the mist like they were woven from it.
"We are nearly there, Chosen One."
Selina gestured forward into the mist, but Cel remained still.
She paused, waiting.
"I have questions," he said. "About the trial."
After a moment, she lowered her hand and faced him fully. "Of course. Please, ask."
Cel studied her masked face. "When I was dying in that cavern, I heard a voice. Female. Sharp and commanding - telling me to get up." He paused. "At first, I thought it was you. But the tone was different. Harsher."
Silence stretched between them.
"Who was it?"
"I am sorry, Chosen One. This does not lie within my authority."
He was silent for a moment, then moved on. "The moon appeared right as I was dying. No trigger I could see - unless dying itself was the trigger. Was the trial simply to survive long enough? Or was there something else I was supposed to do?"
"That, too, does not lie within my authority," Selina said, her tone carrying something that might have been regret.
Cel hummed softly - half-amused, half-resigned. "Can you tell me anything about what I just went through?"
"Only what you experienced yourself. The trial's purpose belongs to the goddess alone."
He let out a quiet breath.
He expected as much, and he didn't really care. The trial was over. He'd survived. Whatever secrets it held, whatever meanings he'd missed - none of that mattered anymore.
"Alright," he said finally. "I'm ready."
Selina turned, gesturing forward once more. "Then let us continue."
They walked in silence, moonlight breaking through the mist in shifting rays. The air grew colder. Thinner. Each step felt lighter, as if the ground beneath his feet was becoming less real, less solid.
Then the mist parted.
Cel stopped.
The ground was carpeted in bluish-white flowers that swayed gently through the mist, their petals drawing in moonlight and releasing it in steady pulses. At the center, a focused beam of moonlight descended - so strong and concentrated it almost seemed tangible.
At first sight, he knew that this was a sacred place.
Selina stepped forward.
"We have arrived, Chosen One."