Chapter 11 — Velvet Shadows of Solenn
Solenn was a cathedral pretending to be a city.
Every tower reached for heaven, every archway was carved with hymns. The streets shimmered with white marble, glowing faintly even in the night. Gold mist drifted from the fountains, perfumed with rosewater and light. But beneath the beauty, there was stillness — a kind of holy suffocation that made even breath feel like a sin.
Elian and the god entered at dusk, wrapped in dust-colored cloaks.
The guards barely glanced at them — the god's power whispered across their minds, twisting their perception into compliance. They saw only what he wanted them to see: a weary scholar and his silent attendant.
"Hold still," the god murmured as his fingers brushed Elian's temple. A faint shimmer passed between them, and Elian felt the air shift — his features subtly altered, his eyes deepened to amber.
"What did you do?" he whispered.
"Nothing permanent," the god replied, his tone low and amused. "You're merely less… you."
"I hope I don't have to stay that way long."
"Not long," the god said. "Only until we reach the Archive."
They passed through narrow lanes lined with glass lanterns. Every window reflected them — two silhouettes in a sea of gold light. Elian caught their mirrored forms again and again, feeling the city's gaze follow them.
"This place feels alive," he murmured.
"It feeds on prayer," the god said. "Every whisper, every dream, turns into power for the Council."
Elian glanced at him. "And you want to steal it back?"
A faint smile. "I want to take what was mine before they learned to call it holy."
They stopped at a small inn near the heart of the city — The Dove and the Ember. Its walls were dark wood, its rooms discreet. The innkeeper, an old woman with eyes like burnt honey, took their coin without question.
When the door closed behind them, Elian exhaled slowly. "We made it."
"For now," the god said. He unfastened his cloak, revealing the faint shimmer of the sigil across his chest — a pale scar that pulsed with light.
Elian's eyes traced it before he could stop himself. "Does it hurt?"
"Only when I remember what it means."
Elian reached out, fingers hovering just above the mark. "Can I—?"
"Touch?" the god asked softly.
Elian nodded.
The god didn't stop him. His skin was warm, almost feverish, and beneath Elian's fingertips, the sigil beat like a heart trying to escape bone. The light brightened, spilling across both of them in gold threads.
The god's breath caught. "You shouldn't—"
Elian looked up. "Why?"
"Because you make me forget what I am."
The words lingered between them, heavy as confession.
Elian's voice lowered. "Then forget."
The god's restraint fractured. He drew Elian closer — not roughly, but with aching precision, as though memorizing the shape of him. Their mouths met again, slower this time, deliberate, the kind of kiss that promised ruin.
Elian pressed against him, feeling the thrum of divine energy beneath skin, the fragile balance between desire and danger. When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard.
Elian managed a smile. "We're terrible at staying unnoticed."
The god laughed — quiet, genuine. "You're terrible at obeying."
"Maybe you bring that out in me."
"Maybe you shouldn't say that so easily," the god murmured. "Words are vows in disguise."
He turned away before Elian could answer, opening the window to the city's distant hum. Below, the streets glowed like rivers of gold. Somewhere in the center, the spire of the Holy Archive rose — slender, infinite, crowned with living flame.
"That's where the relic lies," he said. "Under the Hall of Illumination."
Elian joined him by the window. "How do we get inside?"
"Through the heart of the city," the god said. "Tomorrow, the Festival of Saints begins. Masks, processions, chaos — the perfect distraction."
Elian nodded. "And tonight?"
The god turned to him again. "We rest."
He sat at the edge of the bed, eyes on the faint starlight spilling through the shutters. For the first time since Elian had met him, the god looked… uncertain.
"Do you ever miss it?" Elian asked quietly. "Being worshipped?"
The god's smile was thin. "Worship is hunger disguised as love. They didn't kneel because they adored me — they knelt because they feared what would happen if they didn't."
Elian studied him, his expression softening. "Then maybe this time, someone could kneel for the right reason."
The god looked up sharply — not in anger, but surprise. The silence that followed was electric.
"You shouldn't say things like that," he said after a moment.
"Why?"
"Because you make me wish I could believe you."
Elian's chest tightened. He reached out, brushing the god's wrist — a small touch, grounding. "Maybe that's enough for now."
The god didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his hand, letting their fingers intertwine.
"Sleep," he said finally. "The dawn won't be kind."
Elian lay back, the faint pulse of the god's power still humming through his skin. He dreamt of rivers made of light, of a man who burned but did not fade, of lips whispering his name like a prayer meant to be broken.
---
Outside, the city stirred.
From the upper spires, the Saint of Reflections stepped through a mirror's surface — silent, barefoot, her eyes twin panes of glass. The streets reflected her as she walked, but her image did not match her movements.
She paused at the window of The Dove and the Ember. Her reflection smiled though her face did not.
"So," she whispered, voice like frost. "You still remember what it means to love."
She touched the glass, and ripples spread across it — faint, delicate, deadly.
Tomorrow would bring celebration. Masks, music, and fire.
And beneath it all, the beginning of the end.