Desires & Heresy

Zane tilted his head, watching Eleanor carefully.

Then—he gave her the answer she could not bring herself to ask for.

"If you truly wish to cleanse the church of sin…" His voice was soft, but weighted. "Then you must remove the root of the problem."

Eleanor's brows furrowed. "Why are you speaking in riddles?"

Zane took a single step closer.

The candlelight flickered between them, stretching his shadow over hers.

"We have to kill Gregor."

Silence.

Eleanor froze.

Her breath hitched. Her stomach lurched.

"What?"

A spark of defiance lit in her golden eyes. One last ember of resistance.

"That's… that's murder."

She recoiled, shaking her head as if trying to physically rid herself of the thought.

Zane didn't move. He simply watched.

Waited.

Then—he struck.

[Velvet Whispers – Activated]

He leaned in. Too close.

His lips hovered near her ear, his voice smooth as silk.

"Eleanor… I would never suggest this unless it was necessary."

"I am a servant of Lunara, just like you."

"But I cannot stand by while this sin continues."

"I am doing this for the church."

His voice softened further, slipping beneath her skin, weaving through her thoughts.

"But mostly… I am doing this for you."

A shiver ran down her spine.

The words did not leave her mind.

They wrapped around her. Sank into her bones. Settled into the deepest part of her soul.

She shut her eyes, shaking her head—but the idea had already taken root.

Then—[Holy Presence – Activated]

She opened her eyes again… and when she looked at him—he was different.

Brighter. Righteous. Untouched by sin.

A guiding hand.

A beacon of justice.

She wanted to resist. She had to.

And yet—

"I… I need to think about it."

Her voice was too soft.

Too uncertain.

She turned away first.

They left in silence.

Not a word spoken.

Not even when they parted ways.

Eleanor did not pray that night.

And Zane…

Zane slept soundly.

Two weeks later.

The silence in the cathedral had never felt this heavy.

Eleanor walked through its grand halls, but she no longer carried herself with the same poise.

Her robes, once pristine, clung in ways they never had before. The golden sash at her waist hung loose, the fabric beneath twisted, no longer perfectly fitted. Strands of golden hair slipped free from her braid, some sticking to her neck where sweat had dried hours ago.

Exhaustion weighed on her shoulders, and with each step, the silk brushed against her thighs, the loosened fit revealing glimpses of movement that had never been visible before.

She looked untouched—yet felt unraveled, her body betraying what she refused to acknowledge.

She had not slept.

She had not prayed.

She had tried—tried—to forget.

To convince herself that Zane had been wrong.

That Gregor was just one man.

That justice would prevail without blood.

But then—the letters came.

One by one, signed, sealed, delivered into her hands.

Each one another crack in her faith.

Priests. Clerics. Even deacons.

Words written in shaky, fearful hands.

The funds never reach the orphanage.

He forces the younger priests to forge donation records.

He silences those who question him.

He has been doing this for years.

They had been afraid.

Afraid of Gregor. Afraid of what the senior priests would do.

Afraid that justice would never come.

And beneath it all—Zane's hand was there.

Not in ink.

But in force.

He had pushed them to confess. Pulled them into their own guilt until the weight became unbearable.

Each letter hammered another nail into her faith.

By the second week—she could no longer pretend.

One Week Later – The Garden

The rain poured steadily now, heavier than before, drowning the scent of incense that still clung to her skin.

Eleanor sat alone on the stone fountain's edge, her thighs pressed together, her hands between them, fingers curling slightly against the core of her body. A subtle motion—small, restrained—but undeniable.

The pressure grounded her.

Kept her from shaking.

Kept her from falling apart.

Her robes clung too tightly.

Drenched silk molded to every dip, every swell, every part of her that had never before felt so exposed. The once-loose folds of her ceremonial dress had become an unintentional second skin, wrapping around the full weight of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the smooth stretch of her thighs.

Her inner muscles tensed, firm beneath damp fabric, the silk gathered right there, bunched too intimately between her legs. She could feel everything.

The coldness.

The wetness.

The unbearable, throbbing ache deep inside her.

Her breaths came slower now. Controlled.

Even as something unfamiliar coiled inside her stomach, twisting, clawing, demanding release.

She tilted her head back.

Golden eyes, hazy, unfocused, stared up at the storm-darkened sky.

What should I do?

She had whispered it to the gods.

Begged.

Pleaded.

And yet—

There was no answer.

Only rain.

Only silence.

Only the slow, aching realization that she was alone.

A soft click of boots against wet stone.

She didn't turn.

But she felt him.

Zane.

The rain no longer touched her.

A dark canopy stretched overhead—an umbrella, shielding her from the cold.

His scent replaced the emptiness—clean, steady, threaded with something darker.

A warmth—unwelcome, yet intoxicating—pressed at the edge of her awareness.

And then—a thick cloth draped over her shoulders.

Heavy. Warm. Protective.

"Cover yourself."

His voice was low. Commanding.

She barely reacted.

And that was when he truly looked at her.

And saw everything.

The way her robe clung, soaked through, outlining every inch it was meant to conceal.

And her breasts—

Full. Firm.

Taut beneath the drenched fabric.

The silk had molded to them completely, tracing every soft swell, every dip, every inch of untouched flesh.

And at the very center—

Her nipples.

Hardened peaks, stiff, aching against the wet silk.

Visible. Undeniable.

The rain had left nothing to the imagination.

But worse than that—she hadn't even noticed.

She was too far gone, too lost in her unraveling, her own body betraying her in ways she did not yet understand.

Zane's grip on the umbrella tightened.

Ah. That's dangerous.

Something in his chest tightened.

His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, holding back the impulse—

to devour her.

His voice, when he spoke, was controlled.

Measured.

"You don't have to say anything."

"Just listen."

And she did.

She did not move as he reached into his robes, pulling out one final document.

One last piece of proof.

Eleanor didn't take it at first.

But when she did—her hands were shaking.

Her pulse hammered in her throat as her eyes scanned the words.

A list of transactions.

Gold taken. Not just from the orphanages.

From the widows' relief fund.

From the sickhouses.

From every place meant to offer hope.

Then—another paper.

A list of names.

People who had died waiting for that stolen gold to reach them.

Her breath hitched.

Her vision blurred.

It wasn't just gold Gregor had stolen.

It was lives.

Her hands curled around the parchment, her nails digging into the damp paper.

She felt Zane watching her.

Felt his warmth beside her, unwavering.

Felt the steady weight of his conviction.

"I wanted to be wrong, Eleanor."

His voice was soft. Almost… sad.

"I wanted to believe the gods would punish the wicked."

"But they haven't."

"And I cannot bear to watch you suffer like this any longer."

His voice—it wasn't cold.

It wasn't forceful.

It was tender.

"I don't want to taint my hands with blood."

"I never wanted to walk this path."

Then—softer.

"But for you… I will."

The pages in her hands felt heavier than they should have.

Her fingers tightened around them.

She did not speak.

She did not need to.

Because when Zane reached forward—gently, carefully—and took the papers from her hands…

She did not stop him.

[Eleanor Corruption: 55%]

[Progression Reward: "Unshaken Will"] – Enhances the ability of the host to remain composed.

Zane smiled.

Not in victory.

Not in triumph.

But in patience.

Because now—the first true step had been taken.

[Time Left: 3 months, 3 days]