Vol. 2 Ch. 37: My goddess is better than yours

Author's Note:

Recurring characters:

Mariah: Peter's Mother. She recently lost a lot of memories.

Lady Nyara: The Arch Cultist of Abyss in Rosefall.

Mira: Peter's eldest cousin.

Recap:

Peter moved to retrieve the sword embedded in the spearman’s neck when a glowing bolt of fire flew through the hallway, hitting him squarely in the chest.

 …End of Author Note...

...

(Back at the Cathedral, sometime ago)

Mariah stepped back alongside the crowd, giving the performers space in the middle of the square, directly in front of the Statue.

The group of dancers emerged, walking in fours. Mira was among them, dressed in flowing fabrics of pale gold and green, with small bells at her ankles that jingled faintly with each step. Her face was calm, her eyes focused on the space ahead.

At each corner of the square, musicians stood, either carrying flutes or hand drums. At the steps of the cathedral, a bunch of men stood behind human-sized drums, their hands holding drumsticks.

Mariah watched with a devoted expression, her palms pressed together, as Arch Priestess lifted the conch shell to her lips and blew it. The deep sound rang through the square, silencing the last of the murmurs. It marked the beginning.

A single flute began to play—soft, slow notes that drifted into the still air like the first drops of rain. Then came the rhythm, the low, steady beat of the hand drums echoing from all four corners. Finally, the large drums thundered from the cathedral steps, grounding the music with a heartbeat-like pulse.

The dancers began to move.

They stepped in unison, their formation spreading out in a slow arc. Arms flowed like water; fingers making various symbols. Mira moved with grace, her footfalls light, the bells at her ankles keeping time with each turn and sway. The gems in her costume caught the sunlight as she spun, sending glimmers into the crowd.

More dancers rushed out of the cathedral, their hands filled with coloured powder that they threw into the air as they joined others in the middle.

The crowd swayed to and fro, their bodies moving with the rhythm. More coloured powder was flung. Flowers joined them in the air.

Petals rained down in bursts: roses, marigolds, and lilies carried aloft by invisible gusts, drifting over dancers and spectators alike.

Colours burst in the air as the powder caught the light, clouds of red, yellow, and blue that shimmered briefly before drifting down like soft mist. The dancers moved through it all without faltering, their bodies dancing through the haze as if guided by music.

Mira twirled beneath it all, her arms sweeping out as if embracing the moment itself. Her expression remained serene, even as the tempo quickened again, the music pulling the performers into the next sequence.

Mira’s group stepped back, allowing the newcomers to take the centre. The rhythm shifted, faster now; flutes rising in pitch, drums beating harder. The second group’s movements were bolder, their dance telling a different story: of joy, of life renewed, of the turning of seasons and the grace of the goddess.

Just then, the Arch-Priestess began her prayers, her voice reverent and steady, carrying over the crowd even without magical amplification. The music continued, the dance continued, matching her words.

“Bringer of joy, remover of sorrow and strife,” she began, her tone steady, solemn. “Who listens to woes and blesses with life.”

As her voice carried outward, the crowd kneeled.

“Adorned in golden, so radiant, divine,” The dancers twirled, throwing more flowers and coloured powder. “A pearl-studded necklace around your neck shines.”

“Praise be to you, my lady, Hail to You,”

“O Auspicious One, so true!”

“One glimpse of You, and hearts’ desires come through!”

Her words reached the far ends of the square, and though no magic pulsed in the air, her voice felt sacred. Mothers held their children closer. Old men bowed their heads. A few whispered the lines alongside her, their voices trembling with reverence.

“Your hands sow hope in every field.

Your gaze alone makes harvest yield.”

Behind her, the massive statue of Avaris seemed almost alive beneath the drifting petals, milk still glistening faintly on its surface, sunlight turning it golden.

“The rivers flow where you have tread.

The hungry eat. The lost are led.”

Mariah felt her chest tighten. She knew the words, had heard them every year, but something about them now felt heavier, more real.

The dancers started to spin, arms wide. They slowly parted in the middle, forming a clear path toward the statue. From within the cathedral, a young man emerged.

He walked with grace, head looking ahead, cradling a silver plate in both hands. Upon it sat a shallow gold bowl filled with oil, a single cotton wick burning steadily at its centre. The flame flickered, bright and unwavering, its glow untouched by the breeze.

The music increased its intensity again. The dancers continued to spin in place. The crowd looked with bated breath, reverence falling over them like a blanket. Even the youngest children seemed to sense the weight of the moment.

Mariah watched him closely. Though she had never seen the youngster before, she recognised the signs. The way even the Arch-Priestess bent her posture as he approached, and the offering he bore.

He was someone higher in rank than her, and there were only two positions above the Arch-Priestess.

"Far too young to be the pope," Mariah muttered under her breath, shaking her head. That only left one possibility. The position had been vacant for over a century.

The goddess’s mortal vessel. The Saintess.

The boy climbed the stairs, stopping before the statue and put the silverware holding the flame representing hope and prayers of the devout at the feet of the goddess.

Then, just as the last note of the flute faded, the Arch-Priestess blew the conch shell one last time before she announced the end of the prayer ceremony.

…

In the lair of Chaos cultists, ashes hung thick in the air, drifting like snowflakes in a windless storm. The scent of bloody offerings clung to the stone walls, heavy and metallic. Shadows danced in the flickering torchlight as the cultists moved in wild, frenzied dance before the statue of Abyss.

Their movements were erratic, unchained, each body twisting and convulsing to a rhythm that seemed to exist only in their minds. Bare feet slapped against the ashen floor, smearing soot into arcane patterns. Some laughed. Some cried. Others whispered things not meant for mortal tongues.

And above it all, Lady Nyara sang.

“Trident-Bearer, should I call you or Spear-Wielder?

What do I call you, Oh, beloved Abyss?

So close, so vast, so crystal clear.

The Master of Ocean Depths, of monsters, of storms,

Or should I call you the ender of Worlds?”

The ashes began to swirl. First in slow spirals at the edges of the chamber, then rising higher, gathering above the statue like a storm brewing in the stillness. The torch flames flickered violently, casting monstrous shapes across the walls.

Lady Nyara’s voice did not falter.

“Your names are many, Your forms many,

Every being offers prayer at Your shrine.

Only the ignorant fail to see,

That all creation bows to Thee.”

Whispers intensified, and the cultists danced much more chaotically, as if seized by a shared trance.

“You are the flame on every pyre,

The ashes scattered from the funeral fire.

Every river flows into you,

Though you alone, the path of freedom opens.”

The hair of the statue of Abyss seemed to move, as if responding to the hymn.

“Time itself bows to your will,

Oh, Creator and Ender, silent and still.”

The blood scattered on the floor stirred, forming tiny rivers to move toward the statue.

“You’re the poor’s guide and wealthy’s guide,

You’re the weak’s strength, and warrior’s pride,

Across the stars and worlds wide,

No god compares—none have Your stance.”

The air crackled. The ashes moved by some unseen force, forming a slow-moving vortex above the idol’s head.

Lady Nyara bowed at the statue’s feet.

“Let me stay beneath your feet,

Let your grace complete my soul.

No illusion or desire I chase,

A child I am—grant me your grace.”

Others followed her example, lying flat on the ground.

“We bow to the Abyss, the chaos incarnate,

Beyond reason, beyond desire.

All-pervading, boundless and pure,

Beyond thought—forever sure.”

Lady Nyara raised her arms.

“Fierce, immerse, oh Supreme Abyss,

Darker than a thousand endless nights.

With trident, skull and grace,

You march to war—none dare face.

None can halt you when you rise,

As creation stands and testifies.

Look upon me, remember me,

Even if no pride, you give to me.

Let this life find a sacred end,

All in your loving embrace.”

…

The wounded and the malnourished in the crowd waited in silence for the arch priestess to announce the end of the ceremony, listening to the sound of the conch shell reverberate in the air.

Then, the clouds in the sky parted. The divine domain of Avaris suddenly appeared much bigger and larger. The statue started to radiate with a golden glow, and the air shimmered.

Everyone stood transfixed in their positions, shocked beyond belief by the turn of events, their eyes widened with surprise.

The radiance of the statue kept getting brighter by the second as if it were trying to compete with the celestial bodies in the sky.

The boy standing before the statue gasped, his body seizing. Besides him, the Arch Priestess stood on her knees already, her hands clasped tightly in praise.

The crowd stirred, kneeling even deeper, closing their eyes instinctively as the brightness increased further and further. Everyone but the most devout was forced to bow until their forehead touched the ground.

Those truly devoted witnessed the following events with tears of joy.

The saint candidate stumbled back, his mouth opening in a silent scream. Light poured from his eyes and mouth, much brighter compared to the statue. It grew so blinding that his figure almost disappeared inside it. The beacon of light slowly floated into the air. Inside it, his form twisted, bones reshaped, frame narrowed. The robes clung tighter to the shrinking limbs. Before the watching faithful, his body changed—skin softening, hair lengthening, voice breaking into a breathless cry.

When the light faded, a girl stood in the air where the boy had been. She glowed with a golden hue, her eyes eerily calm. When she opened her mouth to speak, her voice echoed with layered tones as if multiple people were speaking at the same time.

“Rise,” she said, turning toward the masses.

Mariah rose, along with the crowd, and lifted her face to look at the goddess standing before her very eyes. Around her, people shook in their places, tears of joy falling from their eyes. It was all too overwhelming for them. The goddess herself, the object of their faith, stood before them. It felt like the world itself was holding its breath in her presence.

She drifted downward, her feet never quite touching the ground. As she descended the steps of the statue, people gasped in wonder.

Mariah unwillingly turned her gaze away from the goddess to the crowd and found that the wounded people were slowly starting to heal, with every single step that the goddess took toward them.

A hunched old woman straightened with a gasp, her cane slipping from her fingers. A boy with a bandaged arm blinked in confusion as the linen unfurled, revealing unbroken skin. A man with clouded eyes stared at his hands, then at the sky, blinking as if seeing it for the first time in years.

A hush had fallen over the crowd again. The weight of what they were witnessing pressed down on every heart. For some, it was too much. People sobbed openly, mouths covered by trembling hands. Others whispered prayers, afraid to raise their voices too high in the presence of something so real, so utterly beyond them.

Mariah felt her knees shake, but she remained upright. Her gaze was fixed on the goddess as if nothing else existed.

Then, as if she had heard her unspoken prayers, the goddess turned her gaze to Mariah and tilted her head.

It was only a small movement, but it pierced through the haze of awe that had settled over Mariah like a fog. She felt her breath caught in her throat. For a heartbeat, she felt as though she were standing completely alone in the square, stripped bare beneath that golden gaze.

The goddess’s eyes—ancient, endless, and calm—met hers.

…End of chapter…
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