Faith is Earned 1, page 37
Luke kept moving.
Ale filled him and while it wasn’t enough to dull his senses, it was enough to loosen them. His robe slipped slightly from his shoulder and he didn’t fix it. Sweat gathered at the edge of his brow and he let it drip. His hands no longer clenched, his eyes no longer searched and he danced. Between Clef’s cajoling, Clef’s friends' friendly and inviting attitudes and the free-flowing drinks, Luke found himself unloosening bit by bit.
Lessara passed once in his view, walking with grace and light wine in her eyes. She met his gaze and gave a smile too full of meaning to unpack. Then she was gone.
And they arrived.
Two young women, human, barefoot, with loose hair hanging around their shoulders. One with bracelets, one with nothing but ink across her collarbone. They didn’t speak to him, but they came like a tide to his rock and began to circle, dancing, swirling, laughing just out of reach. One brushed her fingers down his spine once. The other took his hand for a beat, then spun away before he could think to hold.
Clef grinned from the floor.
“My man! I knew you had it in you!”
Luke felt like he should have backed off or at least said something. But he didn’t. Maybe it was the drinks and maybe it was the laughter still clinging to his ribs. Maybe it was the simple fact that, for a few hours, the world had not asked him to save it.
He leaned into it.
A kiss came like laughter in motion. The kind of kiss you’re not ready for but you don’t want to stop. Then another. Then arms. Then fingers pulling him gently by his robe, up the stairs, past the hall, to the door of a room on the upper floors.
They had him pinned to the walls, though it was fair to say Luke wasn’t doing much resisting. One look shared between them, before they both grinned simultaneously.
And pushed him inside, the door shut before him.
A voice waited for him inside, cool and warm and too prepared to be accidental.
“Welcome, dear Lucian.”
Luke turned fast, heart stuttering, nerves drawn tight as bowstring. Lessara sat poised on the edge of the bed, her apron gone, only the robe remaining and the absence of fabric made the draping folds of it even more dangerous. The cloth slid like intention, too artful to be careless and her body, half-shadowed by the warm glow of a lantern, seemed composed entirely of shape and suggestion. Her cheeks were ruddy, flush blooming high. She was not perfectly clear-headed, but that meant little in this place.
But her smile, that smile was not kind. Not cruel either. It shimmered with seduction, but something sharp glinted underneath, too quick for comfort.
Without thinking, Luke called on [Sense Sin].
The room tilted and his breath caught.
There was almost nothing.
Lessara stood as near to unsullied as he had ever seen in a soul not newly born. Small flecks here and there, remnants of petty things, old things, choices more impolite than immoral. But no lies betrayed, no Vows broken and no cruelty wielded or injustice left to rot. He’d seen more Sin clinging to orphans.
Lessara blinked. Then smiled with teeth.
"What was that, dearest?"
"An inspection Skill. You have to understand, being ambushed like that doesn’t do wonders for my nerves."
"I wouldn’t exactly call it an ambush. At least, not one of the unpleasant kind. And what did your Skill tell you?"
"That you are pure."
Her laughter was quiet, throaty.
"Oh? Pure, you say. I suppose purity means different things for different people. Should you know my past and the convictions of certain prudish faithful in this city, you might not think that."
"The only convictions that interest me are those of my God."
"...so it seems."
She shifted, rising to her knees atop the bed, then one foot braced on the floor, her body lengthened like a bow drawn to half-tension. The smile remained, but now it bent in strange directions. Measuring. Tentative. Was that fear he saw in it?
"I wanted to ask you about your God. Tell me, is Xelreth your God’s only name?"
Luke blinked, thrown off.
"Uhm, yes. That I know of. We’re still in the beginning phase of our relationship."
"But you bear His name in your Class. That I have seen."
"Looks like I’m not the only one with inspection Skills."
"One tends to acquire them, if faced with certain challenges."
Her arms crossed beneath her chest. The movement was studied, intentional. Made to have an effect on her body and Luke’s both.
"So, dear Luke. A true name, then, for your God. Not a fake… but perhaps, not the only one. Tell me, dear one, you wouldn’t lie to me, would you?"
His pulse was steady now, mind anchored. The way her voice moved, the melody of it, he knew influence when it came and he resisted it. With more than just will alone, with practice.
"I am not in the habit of lying. And I would appreciate it if you could put a stop to whatever Skill you’re using."
Lessara’s eyes flickered, widened a touch. Only a moment.
"Felt that, have you? Yes, I suppose you are quite used to effects pulling on your mind, wouldn’t you?"
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"You tell me. ...I wish I could trust you, Luke. I do. But I have no truth Skills, no Spells or artifacts. And I am still the [Abbess] of this temple. So… I use what I have. And do what I must."
She lifted her hands. Two simple movements, flicks of her fingers against the brass clasps by her shoulders. The robe slithered.
And fell.
Luke staggered back a step.
Whatever Skill had been gnawing at the edges of his restraint until now, an itch in his ribs, a warmth behind his eyes, a suggestion in his blood, now bloomed like fire. He couldn’t breathe. Her body, bare and bare with purpose, shone in lantern-light like an invocation. But it wasn’t just lust that gripped him.
The effect on him was enticing his arousal, draining his will to be anything other than a protector, a lover, a son to the woman before him, to give anything to make her happy and let her make him happy in return.
"That— stop that! What do you want?"
"Oh, but I’ve already told you what I want, dear Luke. Only for you to tell me the true name of your God. Its, let’s say, most common name."
"His name is Xelreth."
She stepped closer.
And his will screamed. It screamed in his soul and body in tandem. Every piece of him that still bore wounds, that still yearned for safety or warmth or love, rose in protest and longing. She was mother, lover, goddess. Her smile beckoned like the end of a war.
"If only I could believe you. But you see, dear one, I have a past. A perhaps sordid past, though not one I am ashamed of. Yet dangerous at times, too. And in this city, those experiences taught me to read the traces of Faith left on a person. To discern them. And it is not the trace of an unknown God I feel on you."
He reached for his sword. His hand would not close.
"No, no need for violence, dear Luke. You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?"
She was only a breath away now.
"No. Not an unknown God at all. But one known to all those of my Faith. Or, if not known, then at least suffered. Yet you seem to resist me. And I am to believe someone not of His lot, with the mental power to resist me, simply walked inside my House?"
"W—Who? What—Stop it!"
"I think not. I do not know what your God’s game is here. Or perhaps it is your own. But He has brought us enough misery. Brought my God enough insult. And it was a mistake to try to tread on us again."
"Get. Back!"
"I will. After I am satisfied. If you will not tell me the truth, then I will simply have to... wring it out of you."
She raised her hands again, one high and one low and touched him lightly. Her voice turned velvet.
"[Climax of Delight], [Twined Around My Finger]."
Luke screamed, in something that was and wasn’t pain.
In euphoria sharpened into terror, as the compulsion crashed into him with divine force.
Chapter 41
The moment after agony is always strangely quiet.
Not that it felt like true agony. It felt like the moments when he was falling to his death and when he was in the grasp of the Mind God and in the moments he lost himself in Corinne, all at once.
But after that, Luke could feel his limbs again. Not entirely, more like echoes of sensation returning to a body half-drowned. His breath stung in his throat. He tasted metal. Somewhere in his mind, the scream he had made was still bouncing off unseen walls. But the room had gone still and Lessara had stepped back, though Luke could not focus on what she was doing, just on her.
He was in a type of haze, where his eyes worked and transmitted information, but his brain only took in what it thought was relevant. Namely, her. Her body, her being, her face. He felt like she was the center of his universe and every glance his way sent shivers of pure pleasure down all the regions of his body. He would do anything to please her. Say anything, spill any sec-
No!
She was dressing again.
Her movements were sharp, practiced. The robe slid back over her shoulders in one motion, the clasps resecured with small flicks of her fingers. She did not look at him as she did it. Her flush had not faded, but now it was framed by something colder. Thoughtfulness, apprehension. She pressed her palm to her cheek, as if grounding herself.
Then she turned.
"You’re strong."
Luke didn’t answer. She didn’t ask a question and his brain refused to take away energy from staring at her for anything other than that.
She stepped forward once, stopped, then began to pace instead. Slow steps across the soft rug.
"I have asked you plainly. I have spoken softly, harshly, and even tried the old ways. None of it gives me what I need. So let us try again."
Her eyes cut toward him, angled and precise.
"Who is your God?"
He opened his mouth… closed it. The answer formed, but not on his tongue. Somewhere further back and the haze pressed in again, warm and golden, like honey swirled into his thoughts.
Speak. Just say it. Say… something. Anything. She wants something else. Tell her what she wants.
He ground his teeth.
No!
"Xelreth."
Lessara tilted her head.
"Again."
"Xelreth."
She stared, then moved again, circling.
"And what does He look like to you, this Xelreth?"
Luke blinked slowly. His breath had become shallow without him noticing. He steadied it and drew from the only place he could: [Greater Resistance: Mind]. The Skill flared like a flickering torch, like a reminder of self.
"He is luminous. He carries weight in His words. He binds the world through promise and brings it back from its brink."
"And does He influence the minds of others?"
Luke didn’t answer, but this time simply because he had no idea how. Did Xelreth influence others? He certainly influenced him. But a part of him told him that was not what she was asking.
Lessara stopped, looked to the wall and spoke as if to it, softly.
"It isn’t working. Why isn’t it working? The charm… the pulse should have torn him in half by now. Even [Twined Around My Finger] can be resisted, but not like that."
She folded her arms. Her fingers twitched. She looked down at herself.
"Should I… do I need to undress again? Would that help? …cheapen myself for…"
The question was bitter, ash in her mouth.
"I hate going back to the old ways. That part of me was supposed to be done. I promised myself I wouldn’t have to do this anymore, that I’m an [Abbess] now. I’m more than flesh and wiles and giggles in the dark."
Luke breathed. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath a blade he kept turning inward.
Stay upright. Don’t fall. Don’t melt. Don’t run. Don’t let her put more clothes on-
STOP IT!
Lessara looked over her shoulder, her voice sharper now.
"But I will, if you make me. I will do what I must, just this once. But no more! Do you understand me, minion?"
Luke stared at her and his thoughts did came as something different than words. They came as clashing instincts. Protect. Fight. Submit. Escape. He could barely tell which was his anymore. He clung to the idea of justice, to the image of a blade held level in his mind, to the memory of the shrine at Farrowend, of the villagers' hands on his shoulder, of Brag and the dwarves and more. He breathed through his nose and felt that his mouth was filled with blood.
"I will not sleep with another of His! I won’t debase myself for His minion, His [Priest] or even the head of his Church. Not after what he’s done. I have grown, I- I have risen!"
Luke swallowed. The effort of it cracked something in his throat.
"Who?"
A single word, dry as sand, all that he managed.
She turned to him, eyes wide for a beat. Then soft, almost pitying.
"Your God, you poor mindless man. Your true God."
She said it without malice, as if it were a kindness.
"Alhmzoum."
The word broke out in Luke and though it did not end the effect on him directly, it filled him with enough fury to think through the haze, rage and hatred acting as clarity.
The name burned. Not just in the air, not just in the echo of Lessara’s voice, but in the walls of his skull and the marrow of his limbs, and the moment she said it, something hard and cold snapped back into place. Alhmzoum. The Mind God. The devourer of freedom, the violator of thought, the weight behind the eyes of all those who had ever said yes without meaning it. Luke staggered, the haze clawing at him, honey turning to bile, every thought wrapped in gold-threaded whispers that were not his, were never his and would never be again. He could barely stand. He could barely think. But he knew what he had to do.
He called it up from the place he hated going, the part of him that knew pain like a tutor, that remembered shaking fingers and sleepless nights, that held tight to the tricks and tools of survival. He cast [Lesser Heal: Mental] and the magic flowed as more than clarity, as a seam torn open in fog, enough for air to rush through, enough for one clear breath.
And in that breath he found rage.
He called [Holy Strike]. Not because it was the correct weapon and not because Lessara was vile, no, she wasn’t, he had seen her sin or the absence of it, but because the power inside him needed to be spoken aloud, needed to make contact, needed to anchor him to the world that was still real and still his. The light gathered around his hand, neither bright nor dense, not blinding but final. He struck her.
She didn’t cry out, only gasped, sharply and the sound was enough to break the illusion of strength she wore. She crumpled back, her nose cracked and bleeding, her hands splayed behind her on the carpeted floor, her body twisted in shock. Her Skills broke like glass.
Luke stood there breathing like a furnace.
He pulled his sword.
The rasp of steel was too loud, too real and Lessara went pale in an instant, the color draining from her skin like water through a sieve. Her mouth opened, but no sound came, and then it did, a high call of panic and authority all at once.
"No, please! Clef! Anyone! Help!"
Luke stared down at her, sword loose in his grip, eyes wide but unblinking, chest rising like he meant to scream the world apart. He told himself he was calm now. He wasn’t. When he spoke, the words tore out of him like thunder.
"Alhmzoum? You think I am one of His? Of HIS?! The fucking Mind God?!"
The door burst open. A handful of figures stumbled in, drawn by the shouting, Clef among them, the others trailing smells of ale and incense, bare arms and spinning hair, party-goers with no weapons, no shields, no training. They saw Luke and they froze.
He saw their flinch, saw the fear. Saw the man he had become in their eyes.
He turned back.
Lessara had dragged herself back several paces, leaving a line in the plush carpet. Her hand was on her cheek, her robe half-fallen again, less seductively now, but clumsily, unplanned. Her eyes looked up at him full of terror.
"Do you have any idea how much I lost because of him? What he has taken from me?"
Her lips moved and words came, in a blur.
"The only reason I am in this blasted city is because I have met Gods like him! And heard that this so-called great city of Temples is filled with injustice and unworthy Faiths!"
She tried to speak again, but choked on it.
"But—but—"
He stepped forward, blade still drawn.
"And you would use a Skill like that? What even was that?"
"Just a seduction Skill and- and a pleasure one, I swear. I—I had to make sure. I... I am the [Abbess] of this House. If there is even any chance—"
"That was a mind manipulation Skill and you know it! You say you fear I’m one of His, but you resort to the same tricks!"
She screamed, more from shame than pain.
"And how can I know?! You think He never took something from me? From us? How can I know you speak the truth?"
Luke held still. His breathing slowed, not calm, not yet, but no longer wild.
And in that stillness he saw what she meant. Beyond her words, to the shape they came from. If she wasn’t lying, if Alhmzoum had hurt them, too, then perhaps... perhaps some of this could be forgiven. Not forgotten, not dismissed, but forgiven. The sword felt heavier now. He let it lower.
Clef took a step forward. The hair on his feet was shaking, but he moved forward, as much as he dared.
"Dude, uhm... I've known Lessie my whole life. She wouldn't hurt a fly, man. And... she's scared. Fuck, I'm scared. Look, man, I know you don't know us for long, but, like... chill? Please?"
“…fine.”
He could afford to back down a bit. Emphasis on a bit. So Luke didn’t put the sword back in its scabbard, but moved and sat on a chair, feeling almost shameful at how Lessie flinched from him.
“Talk.”
Luke sat back in the chair, the sword still angled low against his leg, eyes steady on Lessara as she slowly pulled herself upright from the carpet. Her hands fluttered once, brushed blood from her lip, then steadied. She swallowed, glanced at the door then back at Luke.
