Chapter 19: Last Prayer
Bianor of Cebrene waved goodbye to the young lady named Quinctillia.
The way she gracefully ignored the muttered remarks and disapproving stares of the nearby attendees spoke loudly of her mental resilience. He guessed she must have inherited it from her infamous mother rather than her late father.
Still, how her expression noticeably changed after he gave her his name left him quite confused.
Bianor had taken it upon himself to ease her tension with a pleasant conversation—probably his manner of paying his respects to Lydus Levidis—so he had trouble understanding the reason for her hurried exit.
In truth, he had difficulty recognizing her when she first appeared. If not for the rumors about her exotic beauty and her boldness, he wouldn't have guessed that she was Lady Quinctillia Levidis, a not-insignificant figure from their neighboring nation.
What shocked him most was that she was nothing like her father, neither in body nor in spirit.
The blood of that notorious hag—Lady Helle Levidis—must have been running strong in her veins. It made sense when he thought about it. Only that despicable woman would be shameless enough to tread these sacred grounds without possessing the necessary rights.
It was public knowledge that she would control all her husband's assets until her daughter came of age. Bianor could only pity the few aristocrats foolish enough to attempt to marry Lady Quinctillia and acquire the Levidis fortune. But then again, those dumb enough to fall for Helle's bait didn't deserve their privileged status anyway.
Most likely, she would use her daughter's betrothal and subsequent union to get a foothold in Hierapetra's political sphere, something she was previously unable to do due to her position as a foreigner.
That development wouldn't sit well with the Melissenos family, but fortunately, Bianor never liked those pompous idiots. They loved bringing up their lineage whenever someone contradicted their views, often casually as if bearing the blood of a Hierapetran dynasty from a bygone time made them the paragons of righteousness and wisdom.
In any case, the public discourse continued for quite a while in the agora.
After the well-received plea from the citizens of Gangra, some fool from Priene tried arguing that instead of establishing a defensive line in the border city of Ephyra, Hierapetra should invade Valsgarde while it was possibly unstable.
He was a young man, obviously overtaken by the enthusiasm of his first debate, hence why Bianor, like everyone else, avoided being too harsh while shutting him down. The poor lad still ended up in tears, but it was a lesson all had to learn at some point.
With the Profane Lands' growing activity in the West and the creeping hostility regarding Sethia in the East, the worst course of action would be making another enemy in the North by antagonizing Valsgarde.
The Land of Resilience completely cut off any communication with the rest of the continent ten years ago. None of their attempts at re-establishing contact had born any fruits and often led to human losses. Hence, the general consensus was to let their northern neighbor work out their problems by themselves and observe from afar.
Hierapetra was no military powerhouse, and simply defending its current lands was already straining enough.
The recent aggressive climate was bred by the hopes of the Gods Beyond's blessing, which would be bestowed during the upcoming Sacrificial Ceremony. Some seemed to think it would allow them to regain the lands they lost to Sethia in the War of the Flickering Sea roughly two-hundred years ago.
How naive, Bianor inwardly sighed.
Before heading out of the garden square, he exchanged pleasantries with a few acquaintances and invited them to a small banquet he was organizing. It had been a long time since his last symposium, and he wanted to enjoy it before the date of the Sacrificial Ceremony.
Because he knew that it would be the last banquet held in Priene for a while.
—
Light slowly receded as the warm gaze of the afternoon's sun bathed the entire Divine Capital. The clamor of the agora's outer colonnade quieted with the departure of the last customers. The merchant stalls closed one by one in practiced successions, followed by the Hierapetran citizens, who were the last to leave the garden square.
Some formed groups, heading for the same home in preparation for a banquet. Others opted for a stroll in the emptying streets, perhaps searching for mummers' plays, public performances, or traveling rhapsodes to entertain themselves until the evening.
Bianor of Cebrene, on the other hand, chose to visit a rarely approached part of the agora.
Nestled between two white towers, a small yet properly maintained temple stood outside the sight of most visitors.
The old man advanced with practiced steps, taking in the nostalgic fragrance of scented oils and flowery extracts. The aromas reminded him of his hometown in the Western Province, where these particular smells were most common.
Inside the temple was an altar dedicated to a beautiful girl—the youngest among five—that enjoyed zealous worship in the small, southwestern towns of Cebrene, Dyme, and Cleonae.
That was the venerable Grace of Mirth, Euphrosyne.
In the Eastern Province, where the Divine Capital currently was, few people would choose to offer more than pious respects to the Five Graces. This was due to the Temple of Stars' influence on this region's worship practices.
Unlike the Hallowed Sovereign, who rarely intervened in worldly affairs, the Five Graces were relatively more active in the kingdom's governance.
It was understandable that the pontiffs would be unwilling to share their authority with them; hence their countless endeavors to lessen the Graces' cultural and religious significance within the areas they could most easily reach—mainly the eastern part of the nation.
The western part, however, remained strong in their faith and adoration for Her Divine Majesty's eternal companions. In fact, they held even more value and importance than the Temple of Stars' pontiffs in some secluded towns, like Bianor's birthplace.
Whether that would eventually lead to a religious civil war like the one that took place in Hierapetra during the beginning of the Current Epoch was unknown. Still, it did occasionally create tensions between specific regions, though they were often quickly stifled by both religious instances.
Bianor dismissed those intrusive thoughts with a shake of his head.
To the Grace of Mirth, prayers had to be addressed with a mind cleansed of all conflicts. Just as she inspired joy in the hearts of her faithful, she rejected humanity's sorrows, for only merriment and high spirits allowed her to empathize with mere mortals.
"What a devious doctrine," a voice echoed in a shaded corner beside the altar, startling the old man.
As he squinted to see in the dark, he vaguely recognized the shape of Lady Quinctillia, whom he had last seen leaving the garden square a few hours ago. She was half-squatting in front of a slate, reading inscriptions in a language she shouldn't have been able to understand.
"You're able to read Heriperan? Even though you're Sethian?" Bianor asked in disbelief.
"Does that shock you? I may be forbidden from learning Heriperan due to my being a foreigner, but that's all it is. A prohibition." The young woman rose and took a dignified posture, her dark-green tunic fluttering in the afternoon breeze. "The problem is easily resolved with a corruptible Hierapetran and the right amount of coin."
The old man frowned. "You could be put to death for such offense. I am willing to overlook that for your late father's sake, but openly showcasing this blasphemy is distasteful at best. Heriperan is the sacred link between Hierapetrans and our Hallowed Sovereign. It's the blessed language of the Sidereal Revelations. You have no right to practice it."
"Openly?" Lady Quinctillia looked puzzled, a delicate finger holding her chin. "But I see no one else here besides us, Bianor of Cebrene."
Bianor suddenly had an ominous feeling. He looked around the temple and through the windows, yet failed to see anyone nearby.
Even though few people worshipped the Five Graces in the Eastern Province, he was currently in the Divine Capital, Priene—a melting pot of Hierapetrans from different regions across the nation. Many of them were bound to originate from the Western Province, which should have guaranteed a minimum of activity in the surrounding altars dedicated to the Graces.
"Surprised? I did a little bit of meddling before you came here." Lady Quinctillia walked past Bianor as casually as if she were taking a stroll. "It would be unfortunate if our little talk was disturbed by non-magi. I took the necessary precautions to prevent that."
The term non-magi caused an alarm bell to go off in Bianor's head. He realized that Lady Quinctillia wasn't the grieving young woman he thought she was.
His posture subconsciously changed, and he found himself getting closer to the windows in an attempt to escape.
"Oh?" She stopped between Bianor and the main entrance, slowly turning to face him. "So you're aware of magecraft, but you're not a magus yourself. Interesting."
Bianor's wrinkled face twisted while his eyes widened. The young woman had read him in mere moments, and he had been too confused to see the obvious traps laid in her wording.
A regular citizen would hear the term non-magi and dismiss Lady Quinctillia's rambling as superstitious nonsense, while a proper magus would have already engaged her in battle. In his case, he had started by reaching for an exit—meaning he had accurately recognized the threat but couldn't face it.
Lady Quinctillia gracefully raised her hand, extending it to Bianor as if beckoning him to join her. Her face, ordinarily devoid of emotions, showed the faintest hint of a smile, accompanied by a terrifying glint in her eyes.
"I shall allow you a last prayer, Bianor of Cebrene... because only the Gods may help you in what is to come."
Shadows ebbed like waves on a shore, stifling the light inside the altar. Soon, Bianor felt a tug on his limbs, like a puppet caught between its master's clutches. His body refused to move, and the very act of breathing became a hurdle.
He looked down and realized that an unfamiliar shadow had replaced his own, returning his gaze with a sneer—one that made his blood curdle.
At that moment, the old man knew... that his time had come.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone