Desires & Heresy

The cathedral slumbered beneath the weight of the night, its towering spires cutting against the moonlit sky. The vast halls were empty, silent save for the occasional flicker of torchlight against cold stone.

And beneath it all, deep within the underground archives, two figures moved in secret.

Zane had led them here. Of course, he had.

The idea had been planted carefully, effortlessly—a soft suggestion wrapped in uncertainty.

"I might be wrong," he had murmured earlier, hesitant yet persuasive, "but I overheard something about old ledgers being stored in the underground archives. If funds were stolen, maybe traces remain there…"

Eleanor had agreed instantly.

And now, they stood at the entrance of a stone staircase, the air thick and untouched by time. The torches along the walls flickered dimly, their glow barely reaching the depths below.

The descent was steep, the stone steps smooth from centuries of use.

Zane followed behind her.

He always followed behind her.

Eleanor moved carefully, her white-and-gold robes trailing behind her, embroidered fabric catching faint glimmers of firelight. The golden sash around her waist hugged tightly, accentuating the natural discipline in her frame. Even in secrecy, even in darkness, she moved with poise.

The silence stretched.

The air was too still.

Then—

A misstep.

A sharp gasp.

Contact.

Zane's hand caught her shoulder, the heat of his palm seeping through the thick ceremonial fabric. It was an innocent touch. It should have been.

But the warmth was unmistakable.

Eleanor inhaled sharply, her back going rigid beneath his grasp.

For a fraction of a second, she was hyper-aware of it. The way his fingers—firm yet restrained—pressed into the curve of her shoulder. The way her robes, thick as they were, suddenly felt too thin.

Then, just as quickly, he withdrew.

"Ah—S-Sorry," Zane muttered, his voice uncertain, hesitant. A rare slip. A small, almost embarrassed chuckle left his lips. "That was careless of me."

Eleanor exhaled slowly, steadying herself.

"Be careful next time," she said, her voice even—though the tightness in her chest lingered.

She turned, already descending further, forcing herself to ignore it.

She did not see the small smirk playing at Zane's lips as he followed.

The moment should have ended there.

But it didn't.

Near the base of the stairs, where the torches barely reached, Zane shifted—too suddenly, too fast.

A stumble.

Another sharp inhale.

Eleanor reacted before she could think.

She reached forward—a mistake.

His weight pressed forward, and for the second time that night—contact.

The world tilted.

Her back hit the cold stone.

His weight pressed against her.

Eleanor's breath caught.

Her golden eyes widened, locked onto the face hovering inches above hers.

Zane had landed directly on top of her.

The moment stretched, unbearably long.

His chest—solid, warm, unyielding—pressed flush against hers. The thick fabric of their robes did little to mask the way his body fit against her own. She could feel the slow rise and fall of his breath, the firm press of muscle beneath his ceremonial attire.

And his hand—

Full. Firm. Pressed directly against her breast.

D-cup.

It filled his palm effortlessly, soft yet undeniably firm, the weight of it settling against his grip. Even through the thick ceremonial robes, he could feel the fullness, the way it molded against his fingers, plush yet holding its perfect shape.

Then—something more.

Her nipple.

A stiff peak pressing against his palm, small and tight, the fabric barely muting the sensation.

For a split second, he could feel everything—how firm the bud was, how it responded to even the slightest pressure of his fingers. Whether it was from the cold, the sudden contact, or something else entirely, it didn't matter. What mattered was that he noticed.

And so did she.

Her lips parted—not in a gasp, not in protest, but in silence.

Because for one terrible, fleeting second, she felt everything.

The way his palm adjusted slightly—whether by reflex or intent, she couldn't tell.

The slow drag of his fingertips, pressing against the sensitive peak before pulling back.

The unbearable awareness that if there weren't layers of fabric between them, he would have felt the bare skin of her hardened nipple against his touch.

Zane exhaled—slow, steady.

Then—he moved.

His weight lifted, his palm dragging away inch by inch, his fingers brushing over the stiff bud as he pulled back, a barely-there friction that sent the faintest shiver through her.

Too slow.

Too deliberate.

And just as he pushed himself up, his palm brushed against hers—another fleeting touch, skin to skin this time, a lingering warmth where there shouldn't have been.

"Ah…" His voice was quiet, almost breathless. "That was… clumsy of me."

Eleanor forced herself to sit up.

To breathe.

To ignore the warmth still lingering, the way her chest still tingled where his fingers had been.

"Be more careful," she said.

Her voice was steady.

But it was softer than before.

Zane noticed.

He didn't reply immediately.

Instead, his amber gaze lingered.

Too long.

Then, as if shaking himself free of the moment, he chuckled—self-deprecating, humble.

"Of course, High Priestess. I'll be more careful next time."

But he wouldn't.

And Eleanor, though she didn't realize it yet, wouldn't mind as much next time either.

After a lingering silence, as the weight of the moment settled between them…

Zane adjusted his robes, exhaling as he finally stood. Eleanor forced herself to do the same, smoothing out the folds of her ceremonial attire. But no matter how much she composed herself, she felt it—the lingering awareness of where he had been.

It wasn't just warmth.

It was imprinted.

Still, she pushed it aside. There was work to do.

The underground archives stretched before them, a long chamber of dust-covered bookshelves and forgotten relics. Stone pillars framed the room, their surfaces worn with time, and the scent of aged parchment clung to the air.

Eleanor stepped forward, her hands steadying against a wooden shelf as she scanned the dimly lit space.

"This place hasn't been touched in years," she murmured.

Zane, now calm and composed, hummed in agreement. "That's what makes it the perfect hiding place, don't you think?"

She shot him a glance but said nothing.

Minutes passed in silence as they searched. Eleanor pulled out old ledgers, flipping through brittle pages filled with outdated records. Most were irrelevant—donations from decades ago, transactions long settled.

And then—

A soft clink.

Eleanor stilled.

She turned toward a shelf at the far end, where a wooden crate lay half-hidden behind stacks of forgotten documents. Something about it felt out of place—too new compared to the dust-covered surroundings.

She knelt, reaching forward.

The moment her fingers brushed the lid, she felt it—metal. Cold and solid beneath her touch.

She exhaled, gripping the crate's edge and pulling it toward her. The weight was heavy, uneven. Her heartbeat quickened, a flicker of something—anticipation, uncertainty—rising in her chest.

Then, with one firm motion, she pushed the lid aside.

Gold.

Coins stacked neatly, glinting even in the low torchlight.

Her breath hitched.

This was not supposed to be here.

Zane crouched beside her, his expression unreadable. But Eleanor didn't look at him. She couldn't.

Because as she stared at the wealth hidden away in the shadows, one thought rang clear in her mind.

The corruption was worse than she had ever imagined.

[Eleanor Corruption: 28%]

[Progression Reward: "Holy Presence"] – Makes the host appear more righteous or trustworthy in the eyes of others.

[Time Left: 3 months, 25 Days]