Desires & Heresy

A month had passed since Zane had awakened in this world. In that time, he had played his role masterfully. Three weeks had been spent carefully cultivating his reputation—public healings, tending to the sick, speaking with the faithful. The following week, he dedicated himself to charity, ensuring that donations were directed toward the right hands, never too much, never too little—just enough to build admiration without suspicion.

By the time the second month began, the name High Priest Zion Aldrich carried weight within Lunaria Cathedral. The people saw him as a man of unwavering faith, an anchor of stability in a world fraught with suffering. Even within the clergy, whispers of his devotion had reached the ears of the one woman whose attention he truly desired.

High Priestess Eleanor Sanctis.

For weeks, she had watched him from afar, observing his selfless deeds with quiet interest. At first, she had regarded him as merely another priest—diligent, yes, but not remarkable. Yet, as time passed, she found herself unable to ignore his presence. Unlike the other clergymen, who worked within the safety of the cathedral walls, he went to the people—stepping into the streets, offering aid to the needy, healing without hesitation.

His faith was undeniable. His devotion, absolute.

And so, she came to admire him.

Zane knelt before the grand altar, candlelight flickering across his face. It was late, long after evening prayers had ended, yet he remained, his hands clasped in quiet contemplation. The heavy doors of the chapel creaked open, and the soft echo of footsteps followed—a measured, graceful rhythm.

Eleanor.

She approached with the poise befitting a woman of her rank. Draped in her flowing white-and-gold robes, she carried an air of quiet authority. The golden embroidery shimmered under the candlelight, and as she drew closer, Zane caught the faint scent of sacred oils woven into her hair.

She stopped beside him, standing in solemn silence before the altar. For a moment, neither spoke. Then, in a voice as steady as the faith she upheld, she said:

"You have done well, High Priest Aldrich."

Zane turned his gaze upward, amber eyes meeting hers. A flicker of something unreadable passed through them before he dipped his head humbly.

"I do only what the gods will," he murmured.

Eleanor's lips curved slightly—an expression that was neither a smile nor a frown. "Many claim the same," she said, "but few act as you do. You do not merely preach faith. You embody it."

A gentle breeze drifted through the chapel, causing the candle flames to waver. Zane lowered his head, letting his expression soften with quiet humility. "Faith is not measured in words, High Priestess. It is measured in deeds."

She studied him for a long moment. Then, with a nod of approval, she turned her gaze back to the altar.

"Walk with me," she said.

Zane rose to his feet and followed.

From that night on, their interactions changed. No longer was he just another priest in the cathedral—he became her right hand.

Where she went, he followed. They worked together, tending to the sick, overseeing the church's affairs, and extending their aid beyond the sacred halls of the cathedral. The people soon came to see them as a pair—their High Priestess and her trusted High Priest, walking side by side in service of the divine.

And with each passing day, Eleanor grew more comfortable in his presence.

She welcomed his insights, listening when he spoke of faith, duty, and the weight of divine responsibility. She admired his resolve, his ability to connect with the people. In turn, Zane played his role perfectly—humble yet confident, never overstepping, never pushing too far. Trust—that was the foundation he built between them.

And, subtly, beneath the surface, he began to weave his influence.

It began innocently.

A crowded marketplace, where they walked among the poor, distributing food and blessings. Eleanor, graceful yet unaware of the closeness between them, reached for a bowl of fruit. Zane moved at the same time—his fingers brushing against hers. The contact lasted no more than a second, yet she hesitated—just briefly—before continuing.

A day later, at the cathedral entrance, a strong gust of wind swept through the courtyard. Eleanor's golden braid shifted, a stray strand slipping loose against her cheek, tickling the flawless skin just above her collar. Without thinking, Zane reached out—his fingertips grazing the soft curve of her jaw as he tucked the strand away, the backs of his knuckles barely brushing against her ear. She blinked, her breath catching for just a fraction of a second. He could see the moment she noticed—the brief widening of her golden eyes before she regained her composure..

She blinked, surprised by the gesture.

"…Thank you," she murmured.

Zane only smiled. "The wind can be unforgiving."

She did not pull away.

Between their duties, their conversations grew longer.

Zane spoke of faith—not as blind devotion, but as something living, breathing. He spoke of his own struggles, of the doubts that sometimes gnawed at the heart of a priest. And Eleanor, who had always believed herself unshakable, found herself listening with curiosity.

One evening, as they worked side by side in her office, sorting through donations, she asked:

"Do you ever question the gods?"

Zane, seated beside her, looked up. A candle flickered between them, casting golden light against her features.

"Not the gods," he said, voice low, thoughtful. "But I question how men interpret their will."

She considered his words. "Faith should be absolute."

Zane's lips curled into a knowing smile. "And yet, even the most faithful must ask themselves—do we serve the gods, or do we serve those who claim to speak for them?"

For the first time, Eleanor had no immediate response.

A month passed.

Without realizing it, Eleanor had grown accustomed to him.

She no longer flinched when his fingers brushed against hers. When they walked through the city, she allowed him to guide her through crowds, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back. When he adjusted her robes—helping her fasten the golden sash she often wore—she did not protest.

And when, during prayer, their hands touched beneath the candlelight, she did not pull away.

She never questioned why.

Never noticed that something within her had shifted.

One evening, as they worked late into the night, Eleanor sighed—rolling her stiff shoulders, her posture momentarily breaking under the weight of exhaustion. The tightness in her back eased as she tilted her head, exposing the graceful line of her throat in the dim candlelight. Zane, seated across from her, reached forward instinctively, his fingers wrapping briefly around her wrist, thumb brushing against the soft skin where her pulse thrummed. A brief, fleeting touch. But her skin was warm, her breath slowing as if aware of just how close he had leaned in.

She blinked, realizing only then how close they had become. Her full lips parted, as if to say something, but no words came.

"You should rest," he murmured.

Eleanor blinked, realizing only then how close they had become. She parted her lips, as if to say something, but no words came.

Instead, she simply nodded.

And in that moment, as her golden eyes met his, Zane knew—

The first step had been taken.

The first crack had formed.

She would not see it, not yet.

But he did.

[Eleanor Corruption: 1%]

[Time Left: 4 Months, 2 Days]

And he smiled.