It felt like drowning.

  The invasive presence rampaged through Lucon’s body, wild and unrestrained. It wasn’t merely entering him—it was trying to remake him, twisting through every vein, every nerve, every corner of his soul as if trying to subjugate it. His thoughts splintered under the sheer pressure of the force. He felt like a piece of hot iron, the blacksmith pulling him from a furnace, ready to forge him into something to be wielded by a new master.

  He screamed, but no sound came out. Something dominant pressed him to obey its will and he did not yet get its permission to scream. It was a divine energy clawing at his mind, bending him toward unspoken commands: Submit. Serve. Obey.

  Just as the last ember of his resistance was about to be snuffed out, the world vanished.

  Everything blinked into white.

  The pain vanished. The pressure vanished. Even the sound of his heartbeat faded into nothing.

  When awareness returned, Lucon’s face was buried in something unbelievably soft. It was warm, silken, faintly perfumed, and—by the heavens—had the slightest bounce when he moved. His exhausted mind registered only comfort. He groaned softly and, without thinking, turned his head to nuzzle deeper into it.

  A quiet, lilting laugh touched his ears. Feminine. Amused.

  Lucon stilled.

  He opened his eyes and realized—with dawning horror—that he was face-first against a woman’s ample bosom. He jerked back, stumbling, words tumbling out of his mouth in a flustered rush. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

  The woman only smiled. She wasn’t plump per se, but her figure was full, robust; she filled her elegant white dress in all the ways that counted. Bright gold colored her eyes, and they shone with infinite kindness and a trace of amusement.

  She spread her arms wide, a silent, welcoming invitation.

  Lucon didn’t understand the compulsion, but he found himself returning to her—drawn by the same comfort he’d just fled from. He sank into her embrace, against that same softness, and the warmth enveloped him like a mother’s encouragement.

  “Still straying, even after you promised you wouldn’t,” she said gently, her voice rich.

  Lucon mumbled something incoherent, his cheek nuzzling against her chest. She chuckled helplessly.

  “Your free will was nearly stolen,” the woman cautioned with worry, petting the top of his head with a delicate hand. “Didn’t the temple teach you to always be wary of those from Nimbora who expose themselves to mortals?”

  Lucon felt stunned for a moment, then looked at the surrounding void.

  “Is this…?” he wondered aloud.

  The woman shook her head. “Nimbora is far away from here, young one. We are in your soul,” she playfully tapped his nose with a her finger, “where you invited in my presence. Don’t you remember? The least I could do was protect this place from bad things.”

  Lucon didn’t know what to say. His eyes widened.

  She couldn’t possibly be…could she?

  “Are you perhaps the Merciful Go—”

  The woman became still.

  Lucon winced as her golden eyes darkened. Her soft expression hardened into something ancient, cold, and dangerous. Her gaze wasn’t on him anymore—it was fixed beyond him.

  He turned.

  Herephyn stood there. The Celestari’s perfect face was twisted by emotions Lucon had never thought possible for a being like him—rage, defiance, and above all else, fear.

  The woman exhaled, the sound almost a sigh. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of eternity. “You can’t have what is already mine, Fallen one.”

  Herephyn flinched like a chastised child, his divine pride buckling beneath the power in her words. “Nimbora will regret abandoning me,” he hissed. “For throwing me aw—”

  He never finished.

  The woman raised one smooth hand. Herephyn disintegrated. No blast, no scream—just a silent unraveling. His form came apart into motes of shimmering dust, billions of glittering fragments scattering into the infinite white.

  As his remains faded, so too did the white around them. The light dimmed to gray, then to shadow.

  Lucon turned back toward the woman. Her golden eyes softened again, her smile warm and loving.

  “Be good, Lucon,” she said softly.

  A single tear traced a path down Lucon’s cheek. It felt like a farewell from someone he loved and despite so many disappointments, still thought the best of him.

  The world flipped back.

  Lucon gasped, sucking in air as if surfacing from deep water. He was back in the cavern—the smell of blood, dust, and alcohol overwhelming the senses. The invasive power that had been rampaging had all but evaporated. But there was another problem.

  Someone was holding him down by the throat.

  It was Herephyn.

  The Celestari’s face hovered near his own, contorted in pain and hysteria, his eyes wide and wild as divine light flickered in his broken halo.

  Lucon couldn’t breathe.

  He clawed at the hand clamped around his throat, but it was like trying to bend granite. His vision spotted at the edges, his lungs screaming for a breath that wouldn't come.

  “A monk…” the Celestari rasped through gritted teeth. “I did not expect you, someone with such a sly tongue, to be one of her followers—far from one of her temples. Not in prayer. Not in robes.” He cackled humorlessly as his free hand clawed through Lucon’s hair. “Not even bald!”

  Lucon tried to answer, but only a strangled noise escaped. The Celestari’s grip tightened.

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  Herephyn hissed. “It’s always gods, gods, gods. Everywhere I turn—it’s them. They think they can treat us as they please. Cast us out, bind us with endless rules…and then send their little faithful to mock us!”

  His expression darkened, his teeth bared in hate. “They treat Celestari like me as dust—something to be swept away when their precious rules are broken.”

  Madness crept into Herephyn’s starlight eyes. “Are you even faithful, little monk? Do you keep to your precious vows—obey the goddess’s irrefutable teachings?”

  The woman’s voice echoed in Lucon’s mind, gentle and chiding. “Still straying, even after you promised you wouldn’t.”

  A wicked, triumphant smile spread across Herephyn’s face, as if he could see Lucon’s sins. “You and I are not so different, are we? You are like me. Fallen.” The word was a venomous caress. “Then you should learn to enjoy it.”

  Lucon’s eyes widened in pure, undiluted panic as Herephyn’s thumb and forefinger dug into his jaws, forcing his mouth open. He thrashed, but it was useless.

  “To new beginnings,” Herephyn mocked, echoing Lucon’s own toast.

  He tipped the massive golden vase.

  The thick, viscous, glowing liquid didn’t just pour; it flowed with a will of its own, a river of liquid light plunging into Lucon’s throat. The moment it touched his tongue, the world detonated.

  Light and images—everywhere. Blinding, infinite, overwhelming. His mind splintered under the flood of it as if every thought, every memory, every heartbeat of his life had burst into his purview all at once.

  He saw everything he had ever known—his family, the temple, Claude, the gambling dens and whorehouses—and things he had never seen, could never comprehend. Suns being born and dying. Oceans of color and sensation drowned him. He became everything he was meant to be, yet fell off in every category of being.

  It was too much. Far too much.

  And through the roaring light, he heard Herephyn’s voice, distant now, echoing like a funeral bell’s toll:

  “Enjoy, mortal. None of your kind would ever dream of drinking something so precious.”

  The voice faded into laughter.

  “Ambrosia—nectar of the gods!”

  Darkness swallowed him whole.

  ***

  When Lucon’s eyes finally opened again, it wasn’t to the sight of divine light or the reeking cavern floor—but to the familiar painted ceiling of his room. The soft morning glow of sunlight peeked through the curtains, glinting off the chandelier he’d woken up to for most of his life.

  He blinked. Once. Twice.

  The world was still there. His bed. His silken sheets. The soft tick of the clock on the mantle.

  Home.

  Confusion seeped in. Had it all been a dream?

  Then the pain hit.

  A white-hot spike split through his skull, sharp enough to make him groan aloud. He clutched his head, rolling onto his side as the familiar, nauseating pulse of a hangover throbbed behind his eyes.

  Except this one felt worse. Far worse. Like the town blacksmith stole his brain, hammered away at it all night, only to return it to him at this very moment.

  “Merciful Goddess…” he croaked. “Why?”

  He lay there, clutching his temples, as the question sank deeper. He hadn’t drunk in months. He’d sworn never to again.

  His stomach turned with a mixture of guilt and confusion.

  “I broke it,” he muttered bitterly. “I broke my vow again.”

  His thoughts dragged backward—months ago, to the day his life at the Temple of Mercy had ended. He remembered the confidence he’d felt when his monastic training had been completed. He’d gone into town to celebrate, convinced he could stare temptation in the eye and laugh.

  The next morning, the laughter had died.

  He’d woken up to find the abbot standing over his bed, staring down with a silent, devastated gaze. A woman of the night had been beside Lucon in his cot. Empty wine bottles had rolled against his arm. The scent of shame had been overwhelming.

  He remembered the silence that followed as he’d been walked out of the temple gates. The statue of the Merciful Goddess had loomed above, her stone face seeming to hold a silent disappointment.

  Yet, a different image flickered at the edge of his memory—softer, warmer. The feeling of incredible softness, a vast white space, a beautiful face filled with a love that felt like home. But the pounding in his skull scattered the thought like smoke.

  “What in the seven hells happened last night?” he mumbled, his voice raspy.

  What could have possibly driven him back to the bottle—to break another vow?

  Fragmented, impossible images flashed behind his eyes: wolves stumbling like drunks, Captain Mavor wreathed in flames of red Aura, the haughty, terrifying face of a nobleman who wielded the power of a god. It was all nonsense, the delirious dream-logic of a poisoned mind.

  He forced himself to sit up, swaying slightly.

  Lucon needed something, anything, to take the edge off this particularly agonizing hangover. He didn't want to resort to the "hair of the dog"—it was a pathetic cycle he’d sworn to break—but this was an emergency.

  I already broke my vow once, he thought. Might as well...

  He rose from bed then stumbled toward his bookshelf, his fingers skimming past the spines of books like “The Thinking Man Thinks, Not Drinks,” and “The Virtues of Sobriety”—what he placed there as warnings to himself to stay sober. He shoved them aside, his hand reaching for the hidden alcove behind them.

  Empty.

  Lucon blinked. “No…”

  His fingers patted empty space. The bottle that was always there—his private fallback for emergencies—was gone.

  “No, no, no…” He pressed his palms into the shelf, head pounding. “I didn’t—where did it go—”

  “Master!”

  The voice was too loud. Far too loud.

  Lucon nearly fell over as it hit his skull like a comet.

  “Ow—by the goddess, quiet down!” he hissed, clutching his temples.

  “I’m sorry, Master!” the voice squeaked again, slightly lower this time. “I couldn’t stop your father from sending people to get rid of all your alcohol!”

  Lucon blinked through his pain, turning toward the source of the voice.

  Standing in the doorway was his maid—a young woman with a short-cropped haircut and the nervous, wide-eyed expression of his partner in crime. Her uniform was crisp, her hands clasped tightly before her as she winced under her master’s pained glare.

  Hilda, the only servant loyal to him, unlike the other ones who only obeyed because they respected House Edelyn.

  Hilda opened her mouth again, her face scrunching like she was about to blurt out something else.

  “Not now,” Lucon groaned, holding up a shaky hand. “Quiet, Hilda. Please.”

  She froze on the spot, lips pressing together as if sealed by divine command.

  Lucon lurched forward, one hand gripping the edge of a nearby dresser for balance. His legs felt like wet clay. “I can’t stand this headache,” he muttered, staggering toward the door.

  “B-but you can’t—!”

  “I have no choice!” Lucon snapped, cutting her off as he braced himself against the doorway. “I have no choice…this isn’t a normal hangover. This feels like a divine punishment sent straight from Nimbora.”

  “That’s not what I mean—”

  “Enough, Hilda. I will take whatever punishments my parents have for me. I just need to be rid of this pain!”

  Lucon winced, regretting the volume of his own voice, and pressed on down the corridor.

  The polished marble floors swayed under his feet, the tall windows letting in cruel beams of morning light that burned his eyes. Behind him, Hilda followed in small, anxious hops—shifting from one foot to the other like she couldn’t decide whether to speak out of turn or obey.

  Lucon’s vision blurred again, forcing him to pause. He leaned against the nearest wall, his palm pressing into the cold surface beside a tall portrait. The painted eyes of a stern man—one of his ancestors—stared back at him with unyielding judgment.

  He thought he could hear the portrait speak, “To House Edelyn, upright character matters more than anything—even pain of death!”

  It was in his father’s voice. Perhaps because he always said it. Lucon let out a long, miserable sigh.

  “Even now…” he muttered.

  Behind him, Hilda was still hopping and shifting anxiously in place, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her apron.

  He finally turned to her, exasperated. “Alright, Hilda. What is it? Just say it before my skull explodes.”

  She flinched, then squeaked, “Banner chief!”

  Lucon winced at the pitch. “By the goddess, woman, lower your—”

  He froze.

  Banner Chief.

  The code they’d agreed on long ago, back when he’d roped her into his schemes to avoid things he hated—like responsibility.

  It was far too late to hide.

  A heavy, rhythmic tread echoed from the far end of the corridor. Around the corner, a small, stark group appeared. Flanking their liege were Captain Mavor and Lieutenant Kaeson, their faces set in grim, unreadable masks. Their armor was clean but bore the subtle dents and claw marks of recent combat—a splash of cold water to Lucon who spiraled in thinking the memories he dismissed possibly wasn’t a dream.

  Between the two walked his father, Lord Auric Edelyn. His shoulders were bowed as if under the weight of the entire barony, his face etched with deep lines of stress and exhaustion. He moved with a heavy, deliberate pace, each step seeming to cost him a measure of his strength.

  Lord Auric’s eyes, dark and shadowed, found Lucon’s immediately, pinning him to the spot.

  Lucon’s headache somehow grew worse.