The High Priest's office gleamed like it was carved out of vanity itself.
Marble walls veined in gold rose high, their surfaces polished so smooth they threw light back to the chandelier above.
The chandeliers themselves weren't flame-lit but filled with mana stones, dozens of them, casting the chamber in a perfect glow.
The desk between them was lacquered with its edges inlaid with silver filigree.
Tapestries embroidered with sunbursts lined the walls, each one more extravagant than the last.
It was a stark, jarring contrast to the simple wooden cabin Serenya had just walked out of.
She sat stiff in her chair, still dazed, her mind half in that place above the clouds and half here in this gilded cage.
And the more her eyes roamed, the more it grated on her chest.
Finally, she couldn't keep it in.
"Why is everything in the Church covered in gold and marble?" she asked, her voice low, almost muttered, but carrying a bite of frustration.
She had just breathed the air of her Goddess's own abode - felt the grass under her boots, seen how She chose to live.
And here… here was this.
Her gaze flicked to the High Priest's robe, to the threads shimmering faintly with actual gold.
Her own armor wasn't any better - layer upon layer of the most expensive craft money could buy.
The High Priest chuckled softly.
His smile was gentle, but his eyes had that knowing sharpness.
"For influence," he said simply. "And pretense."
He leaned back, hands folding on the desk.
"We must appear powerful and wealthy. It keeps other faiths from daring to test us. Keeps the Kingdom's nobility convinced of our strength. It is… a shield, nothing more."
His gaze softened just a fraction, but the smile didn't fade.
"Though that truth," he added, "is lost on a great many of our upper echelons."
Indeed, more than a few priests - and even knights - lived as though they were nobility themselves.
Serenya had seen it: the silks, the banquets, the excess.
All draped in the name of the Goddess who had once chosen to live in a wooden cabin above the clouds.
Her fists clenched on her lap before she let the words slip.
"What do I do?" she asked at last, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. "Should I bring Odi—" she caught herself, "—Lord Odin here?"
The High Priest's smile thinned, but his tone remained even.
"No. Not yet. We will wait and watch." His eyes held hers, sharp beneath the calm. "We support him in silence. From the shadows… The First Hero cannot be as vulnerable as you have described to me."
Serenya's head dipped in agreement. "Indeed. He is powerful with his Esper Skill and his Soul Armaments… but physically, he is no stronger than any average man."
"Maybe…" The High Priest leaned back, scratching at his chin in slow thought. "Maybe he is on some kind of trial… One set by Her Ladyship Herself."
Serenya's eyes brightened as she nodded. "Yes. That would explain much."
"It is my hope," the High Priest continued, voice lowering with a hint of gravity, "that Her Ladyship will grant me a vision in the coming days. That she will show us the path."
His gaze then hardened. "I will go into secluded communion. So until then… support him in silence. Agree to his demands. Follow his suggestions."
"Understood," Serenya said, straightening.
But the High Priest didn't let it rest there.
His hand lifted slightly from the desk, as though pressing the weight of his words into her chest.
"Every suggestion… Serenya."
Her lips parted. "Even—"
The High Priest's fingers tapped once against the edge of the desk, while the faintest tremor broke through his otherwise steady composure.
His eyes flicked down on the polished marble instead of on her.
"I hate myself for saying this," he murmured at last, "but yes."
His voice was calm on the surface, but Serenya caught the faintest tremor beneath it.
The words fell between them like a stone dropped into still water.
Serenya sat very still, her gauntlets resting against her thighs.
She was used to being appraised for her rank, her armor, her skill, her faith, even her beauty - not like this.
Not as…
Even so, the High Priest's gaze stayed on the desk.
But his voice held the same frank weight it always did when he gave orders, except now there was an undertone of quiet shame.
He was old enough to remember a dozen scandals in the Church's history, old enough to know what unchecked assumptions could do.
He was only doing what caution demanded. At least that's what he thought.
Serenya shifted slightly, her breastplate catching the light of the chandeliers, the steel and gold filigree glinting like sunlight off water.
At twenty-eight, she carried herself like a captain twice her age, yet in that moment a faint flush rose along her cheekbones - of both shame and the gravity of the discussion.
[Even as the Commander Knights of Liora… A woman still finds herself at the whims of a man…]
And yet…
"I understand," she said quietly. "Even the unthinkable must be considered."
The High Priest nodded once, still looking pained, but resolute. "We support him in silence. And until Her Ladyship shows me the truth, we agree to every suggestion, every command, no matter how… strange."
Then began their talk of contingencies - payments for secrecy, hidden channels for aid, and when the Church would openly step in if the magistrates balked
Plans were made in quiet clauses, not triumph; every sentence carried the weight of a thing that could go wrong.
A little later, with the agreement settled and the maps and plans rolled up, Serenya rose to leave.
The High Priest watched her step through the door before he called out to her…
His voice had changed. The formal cadence of office fell away as something warmer, older, and steadier slid into its place.
"If the worst comes to pass," he said, eyes not on doctrine but on her, "and it becomes unbearable… You are free to act as you will. Consequences be damned."
He let the words sit, then added, "I will make sure my head rolls before yours."
He spoke in a tone that made his words feel more like a vow.
And they landed on her like a benediction.
The commandant of the goddess' knights had been steeled by duty for years.
Now, confronted with that private promise, the armor she'd placed on her heart softened.
A small, honest smile broke through - not the tight, professional half-smile she gave allies on parade, but the one of a girl who'd been handed back a little of what she'd thought she'd lost.
"Thank you," she breathed in a whisper, small and fierce, carrying the weight of trust she had placed in the church since she was a child.
Then she bowed and stepped back into the corridor to do exactly what she'd been told: watch from the shadows and keep faith until the goddess, or fate, decided otherwise.