Desires & Heresy

The torchlight flickered. The underground chamber stretched in suffocating silence, the cold stone pressing in from all sides.

Eleanor did not move.

She couldn't.

Her golden eyes remained locked on the impossible sight before her.

Gold.

Piles of it, glinting dully in the dim light. Stacks of neatly arranged coins, untouched by time or dust, hidden away in a place long forgotten.

Her breath hitched, sharp and uneven.

The weight of realization crashed into her, merciless and unrelenting.

This gold—this wealth, this fortune—was never meant for them.

It was not meant to sit in the dark, untouched.

It was meant for the hungry. The sick. The desperate.

It was meant for salvation.

She saw them—the calloused hands of farmers, trembling as they placed their last coin into the offering plate, whispering prayers for rain, for mercy.

She saw the weary merchants, the struggling nobles, the broken mothers with hollow eyes—all giving, all believing.

Believing.

That their offerings would become food for the starving. Medicine for the dying. Shelter for the orphans who shivered in the cold.

She saw those orphans now—small hands clasped in prayer, lips cracked from thirst, knees bruised from kneeling on temple stone.

Waiting for warmth.

Waiting for kindness.

Waiting for a miracle that would never come.

Because this—this hoard of stolen faith—was where their hope had died.

Not in the hands of the gods.

Not in the light of mercy.

But here. Piled high, like faith turned to filth.

Her hands clenched into fists. A tremor ran through her fingertips, her entire body shaking as fury, betrayal, and devastation coiled into one unbearable storm.

Why?

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

A rustling of fabric. A slow exhale.

Zane.

He had not spoken.

But he had been watching.

Watching the fury twist her features, the way her breath quickened as the weight of realization crushed her. Watching her fingers clench the parchment so tightly her knuckles turned white, her body trembling—not with fear, but with rage.

And in his silence, he let it take hold.

Let it ruin her.

But there was something else.

Something he hadn't expected.

He wasn't just enjoying her downfall.

He was enjoying her.

His gaze drifted lower, unbidden, lingering where it shouldn't.

She had knelt slightly as she pulled the document from the crate, the weight of discovery pressing down on her. The motion had shifted her robes—not enough to expose, but enough that the fine silk stretched over the curve beneath, hugging the shape of her seated form, pressing against flesh that was soft yet undeniably firm.

And above—her chest, rising and falling, pressing subtly against the tight fabric of her robes.

The high collar did little to disguise the way the thick ceremonial silk stretched across her full breasts, the golden embroidery tracing over every restrained curve. When she inhaled sharply, the fabric shifted—just barely, just enough to hint at the way her body responded to each breath.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

She was breathtakingly beautiful.

That thought hit him harder than expected. It was the first time he acknowledged it, the first time he let himself truly see her—not just as his target, not just as a woman of faith meant to be broken—but as something far more dangerous.

Something he wanted.

She looked holy. But her body… her body was temptation itself.

The swell of her chest rose and fell sharply, her ceremonial robes pulled snug across her body, accentuating the soft curve of her breasts as she breathed through her anger. The high collar concealed, but it did not erase. He could still see the way the fabric shifted, how it molded against her form, how the tension in her body made every inch of her look painfully divine.

Holy. Untouched. Restrained.

And for the first time, he wanted to break her in ways that had nothing to do with the system.

The thought was subtle, dark, curling around his mind like a whisper of blasphemy. He had been patient, methodical—his purpose was to see her corrupted, to make her question, to lead her down the path of ruin.

But now, as he watched her struggle, as he watched the emotions rip through her body, making her breathless, vulnerable, unknowingly tempting—

He wanted to feel that tremble beneath his hands.

Her golden braid had loosened slightly in her distress, stray strands slipping free, framing the curve of her throat. Her lips parted as she tried to steady her breathing, soft, plush, meant for prayer—but he imagined them parted for something else.

Yes. Let it consume you. Let it tear you apart.

Let me be the one to put you back together.

She was breaking. Beautifully. Completely.

His patience had led her here, step by step. Each carefully placed word, each perfectly timed touch, each moment of trust he had planted inside her.

And now—

Now, he wasn't just watching for the fall.

He was craving it.

Eleanor forced herself to breathe.

Her fingers twitched before she moved forward, nearly stumbling as she reached into the crate. The coins were heavy, the cool metal pressing against her palm.

Something sharp scraped against her fingertips.

A document.

She pulled it out, her hands unsteady as she unrolled the parchment.

A signature gleamed at the bottom, wax-sealed with an insignia she knew too well.

High Priest Gregor.

Her heart lurched.

She stared, wide-eyed, her pulse hammering in her ears.

No.

Not just a name.

Proof.

The breath left her lungs all at once, a sharp exhale as the world tilted.

Zane watched as the moment snapped into place.

The disbelief.

The horror.

The pure, unfiltered rage.

Eleanor rose too fast, nearly knocking the crate aside.

No. No, no, no…I must not let this continue.

Her legs moved before she could think, her breath ragged, her body blazing with fury.

She stormed toward the stairs.

"Eleanor."

Zane's voice cut through the air—low, firm, a tether before she could break completely.

She barely paused.

"Where are you going?"

Her voice shook as she spoke, a raw edge of fury laced through her words.

"To face the sinner." Her golden eyes burned as she turned back to him. "Only then will my mind be cleansed."

A step forward.

A hand—strong, warm, unyielding—wrapped around her wrist.

Eleanor stilled.

Zane pulled her back.

Not forcefully.

Gently.

But undeniably.

His amber eyes met hers, deep and unreadable, the flickering torchlight casting his face into something nearly divine.

"That is not a good idea."

His voice was steady. Certain.

For the first time that night, Eleanor hesitated.

"Why?"

"Because," he murmured, "you still believe this is a battle you can win fairly."

A slow inhale. A careful pause.

Zane stepped closer, his warmth sinking into the cold air between them.

"Do you truly believe Gregor acted alone?"

Eleanor's breath hitched.

She tried to reject it.

But she couldn't.

Because she knew.

She had seen it—the way the Senior Priests turned a blind eye.

If they knew… then why had they done nothing?

Zane let the silence settle before speaking again.

"They have seen the ledgers, Eleanor."

"And yet, they did nothing."

"Why?"

Her stomach twisted.

Her rage burned hot—but now, it came with fear.

For the first time, she felt small against the weight of the church.

And Zane saw it.

Now. Now she was ready.

"Then what should we do, Zion?"

It was a whisper.

A plea.

A surrender.

Zane did not answer immediately.

Instead, he simply watched her—watched the way her breath came too fast, the way her fingers trembled just slightly at her sides.

Then, he smiled.

Not outwardly.

Not where she could see.

But deep inside, where his victories lived.

[Eleanor Corruption: 36%] 

[Progression Reward: +4 Holy Influence]

[Time Left: 3 months, 24 Days]