The return was jarring, a violent shove back into reality. Ilia gasped, her lungs filling with the familiar, incense-laden air of the Ritual Chamber. She was on her knees in the center of the arcane circle, the silver lines now dim and dormant. Her entire body ached with a profound, soul-deep weariness, as if she had been awake for a hundred years.
"She's back!" a voice cried out.
High Cardinal Valerius was at her side in an instant, his cold fingers gripping her arm, hauling her unceremoniously to her feet. "Report, Saintess! Was the ritual a success? Is the binding complete?"
Ilia swayed, her head swimming. She looked at the faces of the magi surrounding her. They were pale, sweat-beaded, exhausted from the ritual, but their eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. They looked at her as if she were a bomb that might either save them or detonate in their faces.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her own voice felt foreign. The connection to Zephar, that terrible, humming cord in her chest, was still there. It was quieter now, a low thrumming at the edge of her senses, but it was undeniable. And through it, she felt a faint, distant echo of… what? Annoyance? Boredom? It was a phantom emotion, not her own, bleeding through their new bond.
Tell them nothing of our bargain, a voice whispered in the deepest recess of her mind. It was his voice, faint and distorted by distance, but unmistakably Zephar. You are their miracle. Let them believe in it.
The instruction was clear. He wanted her to lie. To become his agent in the heart of the Holy See.
Ilia took a deep breath, steadying herself. She lifted her head, pulling the icy mask of the Saintess back into place. "The binding… was successful," she said, her voice hoarse but firm. "The Abyss has been pacified."
A collective sigh of relief swept through the chamber. Valerius's grip on her arm loosened, his expression shifting to one of triumphant satisfaction. "Praise be to the Light! You have done it, Saintess. You have saved us all."
He was praising a god who had abandoned her for a victory won by a devil. The hypocrisy was so thick she could taste it.
"The Abyssal Creep is already in retreat," one of the magi, who had been scrying into a bowl of silvered water, announced in awe. "It's pulling back, faster than it ever advanced. By the gods, she did it!"
They were all looking at her now with renewed reverence, with awe. They saw a hero. A true saint. They had no idea they were looking at a compromised soul, a woman who had just sold herself to their greatest enemy. The lie settled heavily in her gut.
"Take the Saintess back to her spire," Valerius commanded the guards. "She is to rest and recover. No one is to disturb her." His eyes met Ilia's, and they were filled with the pride of an owner whose prize horse had just won the race. "You have earned your rest, Ilia. You have earned the gratitude of the empire."
She said nothing as the guards escorted her out of the chamber and back up the winding stairs. Every step was an effort. Her body felt alien, her soul branded. When she finally re-entered her familiar chambers, the scent of lilies felt cloying, the painted angels on the ceiling like mocking fools.
Elara rushed to her side, her face a mask of terror and relief. "Your Holiness! Are you… are you alright?"
Ilia wanted to collapse into her arms, to confess the terrible truth, to weep for the girl who had descended into the Abyss and had not returned. But she couldn't. The vow she had made was a secret she must carry alone. And Zephar was listening. She could feel him, a silent, watchful presence at the edge of her consciousness.
"I am… weary, Elara," Ilia said, allowing the handmaiden to guide her towards her bed. "The ritual took a great deal of my strength."
As Elara helped her out of the sacrificial gown, Ilia caught her reflection in the silver mirror. She looked pale, haunted, her eyes shadowed with a darkness that hadn't been there before. Her gaze fell to her chest. The white silk of her shift lay smooth and unblemished over her heart. There was no visible mark. The thorned rose was a brand on her soul, invisible to all but her.
And to him.
She dismissed a distraught Elara and finally fell into her bed, the soft linen feeling like sandpaper against her hypersensitive skin. The exhaustion was absolute, a crushing weight that pulled her down towards sleep.
But as she drifted in the space between wakefulness and slumber, she felt it again. The echo. It was stronger this time, a clear, distinct emotion flowing through the cord in her chest. It was a wave of profound, soul-shattering boredom, the kind that could only be born from ten thousand years of staring into an empty void. It was followed by a flicker of something else—a sharp, biting hunger.
His hunger.
Ilia's eyes snapped open in the darkness. She was lying in her bed, in the heart of the Holy See, but she was not alone. She could feel him. She could feel his ancient ennui, his primordial cravings.
She had saved her world. But the price was this: she had become a window through which a fallen god would now experience life. And she had a terrifying feeling that he would not be a passive observer for long. The cage had not gotten smaller. It had just acquired a new, infinitely more dangerous warden.