Chapter 37: Ch37 The Bells Of Worship
Only for his punch to be stopped by Mark.
"Oh ho!"
"Easy there, fighter." Mark gestured weakly to himself, still leaning against the bed. "I’m not in the best fighting conditions."
Eilan sneered, teeth clenched, before pulling away. "You’re insane."
Mark just smirked, pushing himself back until his spine rested against the bedpost. The faintest amusement lingered in his eyes, even though his body was drained.
Silence...
But then...
"You know she deserved it."
Eilan stiffened, his gaze darting to Mark, who now stared ahead, his expression hollow, lost in thoughts too heavy to hold.
"That woman couldn’t be called a mother."
"Not like that."
"Not by how cruel and wicked she was to her own children." Mark stopped, his mouth pressing into a thin, unshakable line.
Eilan’s grip loosened, his anger flickering like a candle about to be snuffed. Still, he stood vigilant, his breathing sharp.
"For money," Mark continued, voice low and biting, "she would even try to sell us as slaves... or slip poison into our food."
He turned his head then, finally meeting Eilan’s conflicted eyes.
"Is that someone deserving of pity?"
Eilan stood silent. He wanted to argue, wanted to defend the mother he remembered, but no words came. Because even though he burned with anger, he couldn’t beat Mark with truth.
And was all he said a lie?
No...
There was truth to it.
Their late mother was that kind of person. The pinnacle of greed. Relentless in her desire for more—always more.
Once, long ago, she had been only a count’s daughter when she married their father. Sweet. Lovely. Her smile could brighten an entire day.
But as soon as her hands tasted the luxuries of power, she wanted more. Always more.
The mother they had once known vanished. In her place remained a woman who inspired not warmth, but fear.
Eilan groaned, his throat tightening.
Mark coughed—once, then again, harder. His eyes clenched shut as pain wracked him, his body trembling under invisible weight.
The room went silent again, only the shallow breaths of the two brothers filling the air.
In another place, another storm brewed.
Guards lined the walls of a great dining hall, their armor gleaming in the lamplight.
Liliana sat rooted to her chair, a small feast laid out before her. Platters of roasted meat, fruits, and breads covered the table in abundance. It should have been a sight to make anyone’s heart glad.
But her expression remained blank—no, worse—irritated.
Why?
Simple.
Aithur sat just beside her, a grin plastered across his face like a mischievous boy who had just stolen a pie.
"So..." he began, voice thick with play. "How was the journey, Liliana? Oh..." He placed a hand over his chest, feigning realization, and gave a mock bow.
"I meant Count Liliana."
Liliana frowned, her brows creasing sharply.
"Wow!" Aithur clapped happily, his grin widening. "I didn’t think retrieving a rusted sword would actually get you a promotion, my lady. Perhaps the king’s eyes are too old to see what he’s appointing anymore."
Her knuckles whitened as her fingers curled into fists.
"Are you done?" she asked, her voice trembling on the edge of anger.
Aithur’s eyes gleamed in victory, feeding on her frustration.
"Says the one who also got a promotion."
"Grand... Duke," she spat the words as though they were poison. Aithur’s presence today was unbearable, every smirk and word designed to grate against her patience.
Aithur huffed casually, plucking up a fork. He poked at a slice of meat, flipped it over, then cut it neatly and brought it to his lips.
"You know..." he said around his bite, "is this really necessary?"
Liliana’s eyes narrowed. "You mean the king assigning us to this prayer?"
Her gaze swept the hall, and Aithur’s followed. The room was already filled with the royal guard—elite soldiers, the finest of divisions. Every corner was sealed, every angle locked tight.
So why were they here?
Liliana groaned softly, already hating this assignment.
The bell rang then—louder, fiercer this time. The sound rolled through the air like thunder.
Aithur stopped mid-bite, lowering his fork.
"Hmmm..." He dabbed at his lips with a napkin, rising to his feet. "Seems it’s time for us to go."
Liliana huffed, shoving her chair back as she rose. She stepped toward one of the standing knights, extending her hand. Without hesitation, a gleaming ruby sword was placed into her grip.
She fastened it to her left hip, gave the knights a curt salute, and turned to leave. The guards fell in behind her, their boots striking rhythm in unison.
’There she goes again,’ Aithur thought with amusement, trailing lazily behind her.
The bells of worship rang like morning bliss, clear and commanding.
Outside, the people had already gathered at the temple doors, waiting with restless anticipation for them to open.
The temple stood tall, adorned in the traditional white and gold. Dove-like designs spread across its pillars, and golden halos decorated the stands. It gleamed divine, almost unbearably so—as if screaming: This is what a temple should look like.
’I want to go home,’ Luther groaned inwardly as yet another bystander shoved past him in their desperate attempt to get to the front.
He was wedged in the middle of the crowd, those who had traveled with him standing close around like a flimsy shield.
A young boy beside him tugged at his sleeve.
"Hey, Luther, do you think we’ll be able to see Asmethan’s statue?"
’Statue?’ Luther’s thoughts dripped with disdain. ’Who would want to see that blasted god’s statue? Stone’s not going to pay your rent or save your hide from demons.’
"Ehmm..." He shrugged dismissively.
The boy pouted but quickly brightened again. "Oh, I really want to see it! Mother always said it’s the gem of beauty—that anyone who gets the privilege of touching it might be granted an apprentice title, chosen by the elders themselves!"
He hopped up and down, his excitement glowing like a lantern in the dark. "How cool would that be?"
Luther forced a smile, not wanting to crush the boy’s dream, but internally his annoyance burned hotter than coals.
’Cool? Sure. If by cool you mean chained to a bunch of wrinkled old priests for the rest of your life while they suck you dry of magic. Yep, very cool.’
The murmur of voices spread thick around them. Luther glanced upward, his eyes catching on the temple roof. Three elders stood there, watching like hawks, their gazes dissecting every soul in the crowd.
He smirked bitterly.
’Seems those old geezers are impatient already. Sniffing out who they want before the show even starts. At least wait until after the ceremony to drool, yeah?’
But he quickly looked away. He didn’t want their eyes on him. Not at all.
Because if his memory was right, this was the beginning of the story. The starting point for those two—and the road that led to a useless, bitter end.
An attack.
The temple would be attacked today by a group of so-called unbelievers, men claiming the prophecy was false. But in truth? They were assassins, hired to kill the Father.
Luther’s jaw tightened. He remembered. Most of the people here would die in that attack.
’What a joyous occasion,’ he thought bitterly.
The bells rang again, sharper this time, pulling all eyes toward the temple doors.
"Greetings, all, children of Asmethan!" the elder’s voice rang out.
The crowd grew restless with anticipation.
Luther frowned.
"At the hour reaches, we thank you all for your diligence and hope in our Father Asmethan!"
’Hope in your father maybe. Not mine. My father left me with a bar tab.’
"We now open the doors!"
The elder struck a small bell, and the two guards stationed at the entrance pushed the grand doors wide. Light streamed out, radiant, blinding, filling the crowd with awe. Eyes widened like jewels catching the sun.
The mass began to surge forward, carrying Luther along like driftwood in a river. He grunted, shoved from behind, but before he was fully swept in, he glanced upward one last time.
"Huh?"
An elder stopped. His gaze sharpened, locked onto Luther like an eagle spying prey.
"Elder Nimo," one of the others asked softly. "See anyone to your liking?"
Nimo stood frozen, eyes glued to the boy in the crowd.
’Magic,’ he thought, his heart quickening.
’Raw magic.’
’That boy...’
A smirk crept across his face, cold and certain.
"Yes," he said, his lips curling.
As Luther vanished into the temple doors, Elder Nimo whispered,
"I think I just did."