The stranger’s neck was slender and appeared violently strangled, yet held still a straight back, and a gracious, polite tone. Hellain had never seen something so odd. The effect of his vow seemed to be inevitable; he grasped their wrist so tightly he felt pain himself.

  Officia is a small clinic, but famous for their apothecaries. He also knew their, though few, Healers were exceptionally effective, though they didn’t often get much clientele.

  The healer who’d treated the fellow he’d led here; Hellain couldn’t understand why someone like them would work here.

  Anyhow, Hellain thought the strange man could come here again after he introduced this place to him, but it turned out he comes here so frequently that Howls, the clerk lady, remembered him.

  He also had many aliases, one of which being Angra Hegesias. Hellain wasn’t sure Angra even knew how he came to be inflicted with such a degree of malice, since he seemed to think people were overreacting.

  Hellain’s Promise seemed to urge him to do something. He sighed in irritation, scratching the back of his neck, thinking of a solution. Becoming friends sounded okay, though a little loutish.

  After leaving, they ended up in a park Hellain regularly went to if he needed to clear his mind. The tormenting rain reminds him of his duty—a duty he finds disgusting, but nausea erupts at the idea of wallowing in his misery.

  Aventis’ appointment with them lost any value leftover. He’d already gotten what he wanted from them, but Aventis had a greed he must satisfy to a degree if he, quote-on-quote, enjoyed his current lifestyle.

  He’d simply inform them later tonight of the cause of his absence. Though cruel, they were a lenient group. Tardies and absences meant nothing, but results meant everything.

  When the sun’s neglecting gaze seemed to imply an unpleasant darkness upon the midday sky, Hellain simply thought of serving the famished individual a meal.

  And though he didn’t expect himself to blurt his Promise, Angra’s clumsy reply seemed to alight a softness in his heart he didn’t know he still had.

  Hellain closed the door behind him with a faint ‘click’. A cold, unfeeling expression eradicated where fragility once thrived, and he turned the miniature clock on his nightstand over.

  On the back of the clock were five written letters carved into it. Though the letters of an extinct language, toffs who truly believed themselves to be up high in the hierarchy admired it greatly.

  Language of the daylight, they decided on their own. It is Sanctity’s dearest child.

  A rage burrowed deep in the narrow crevices of Hellain’s heart.

  ‘Temperance, hast thy soul eaten the red fruit?’

  A female voice echoed through the sound proofed room. Hellain’s eyes narrowed as he spoke with a distant approach.

  “‘Wheel of Fortune’, your place is to simply observe Venerari’s Clock. Abstain from overstepping.”

  Hellain wanted to grind his teeth at the image of that woman’s curved lips. He wished to chastise her on questioning the stability of his corruption; she looked completely corrupted by now and had the audacity.

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  [As an Apotheosis of Our Mithra, he knew better than to crumble under the pressures of his own heart.]

  Her giggles of reproach ignited a burning sensation in his ears, but her abrupt silence seemed to bring a unique pleasure.

  “Temperance, no, Hellain.”

  “… Curates.”

  “Schemes for the season of blooming flowers should be held back. Poisoned Sea has warned us of the uncertainty following spring. Sanctus Nectar will rain down from the heavens.”

  The Wheel of Fortune’s use of flowery language persistently irritated Hellain. Only dedicated followers of Venerari ever use the Sovereign’s imaginary world to refer to Them.

  It was fortunate he understood Poisoned Sea referred to the sea of time, Venerari.

  Sanctus Nectar is a reddish black rain that rains down every five years for but a day. It is the blood of olden gods, and blesses those who fit within unknown criteria. They become Apotheosis; humans with special powers that are unique to themselves.

  ”Though I heartily wish for our plans to forever be concealed, it doesn’t concern me to begin them. That is likely Crow’s problem.”

  “I disagree. The Hermit said it’s yours now.”

  “The Hermit is not Father Claeg, and has no power to order me around.”

  “At his behest, I summoned you, Temperance. However, truthfully, I’d surmised that your presence was wholly desideratum for reclamation of Borgia.”

  Hellain could show disregard to a certain point, but it’s clear she wanted to veer away from such a discussion. Sighing, he put on a mask.

  “Regretfully, due the restrictions of my Promise, I currently cannot comply. Goodbye, Wheel of Fortune.”

  The plans for reclamation weren’t any good either way, considering the status of Borgia. He’d personally investigated thoroughly, not just skim through summarizations compiled by sugarcoating subordinates.

  There were too many Apotheoses here who lived as vagrants or wanderers.

  Reclamation would probably include these individuals and make the process incredibly more complicated—especially considering they are a sore spot for most countries governing bodies.

  “Temperance, I have more to say.”

  Oh?

  ______

  Angra stared at the shut door with an inquisitive look. How should he go about recruiting this individual for his… religious group? (He disliked the term cult)

  Do you believe in fucking idol worship?

  Which Sovereign do you serve? I can guarantee you’ll love mine more.

  They both sounded slimy, cultish, and cringe to him. To create a Sovereign out of thin air is impossible, it doesn’t work like that in this world. Back home, it would’ve been easier. It’s not like the gods were truly real.

  Although a part of him felt slightly guilty since Hellain seemed kind. Still, Angra was selfishly eager for him to join. But this cult, it aimed to create a new, more beautiful ending for the Deist Empire, no?

  The apricity of the sun was a warmth difficult to forget as the harshness of brumal days battered on the hearts and minds of people.

  Those who lived in the lands of eternal winters, how could they live happily at all?

  Simple.

  They brought themselves a salvation—a light only they could identify. Angra knew at least that much,

  The nearest event would happen in two weeks’ time.

  A shocking murder would happen in the uppermost layer of the Deist Empire’s hierarchy—the murder of a famous prince:

  Notra De Efthimios Creastash; The second prince yet fourth born, and the sole child gifted the late Empress’ family name by his majesty, a gracious Emperor.

  The motive of his murder was only discovered during the event that would happen afterward, and honestly the description of it was very vague.

  [Their depravity could not see behind nor ahead, and for that they shall die horribly.]

  Apparently, Notra was a kind soul.

  Depravity? It must be referring to something related to him rather than him. Regardless of that, a question lingering in Angra’s mind was why they ‘referred to him’ using plural pronouns instead of singular.

  Perhaps there was more to it than what one might see at face value.

  Either way, Angra decided to save the Second Prince from his death, which he knew absolutely nothing about.

  Angra turned to the door that had been shut for a while now. For a brief moment he thought he’d heard a faint shout, but it was as silent as the fabled Dead Sky.

  It’s odd to doubt your instincts in an unknown world. Angra for sure didn’t.

  But… he didn’t walk up to the door, or call Hellain out of the room. He didn’t say anything at all, and just feigned obliviousness.