Morning light poured through the open window in thick golden bars, painting Mira's sleeping form in soft honey. She lay on her side facing him, one heavy breast spilling across the sheets, nipple still faintly reddened from last night's worship. A thin trail of dried seed marked the inside of her thigh—his seed—and she hadn't bothered to clean it away. Instead she wore it like a badge of favor, even in sleep.
Alex watched her chest rise and fall, lips curved in the smallest of smiles.
She's already convinced I hung the moons. One night of careful theater and she's ready to tattoo my name on her womb. But faith is fragile when it's new. One loud voice of reason and the whole choir can turn into a lynch mob. Time to meet the first test.
He slipped from the bed without waking her. The floorboards were cool under his bare feet. He dressed in the same simple linen, leaving the top laces loose to show a hint of chest—humble, approachable, holy. Then he padded downstairs.
The common room of The Hearth & Bloom was already alive.
Women moved with quiet purpose: sweeping, setting tables, carrying trays of fresh bread and honeycomb. Several glanced up as he descended the stairs. Eyes widened. Smiles bloomed—some shy, some openly hungry. A few pressed palms together in small bows. Mira must have spoken before she finally slept.
One woman in particular caught his eye: older, perhaps late fifties, silver threading through thick black braids wound into a coronet. She wore a deep-green robe embroidered with silver vines at the cuffs and hem. Her posture was ramrod straight, hands folded at her waist like someone used to being obeyed. She stood near the hearth, watching the room with the calm appraisal of a general surveying troops.
The system chimed softly the moment their eyes met.
[Appraisal of the Worthy]
[Name: Elder Rowan Calder]
[Age: 58]
[Status: Village Elder, Keeper of the Mother's Grove, Unwed by choice]
[Hidden Desire: Proof that the divine still speaks clearly in an age of soft comforts]
[Current Devotion to Host: Skeptical → Mild Curiosity (Anointment influence present but resisted)]
[Divine Offering Value: ★★★★☆ (High magical affinity, respected authority, deep-seated need for certainty)]
Perfect, Alex thought. The village conscience. If I can turn her, the rest fall like dominoes. If I can't… well, better to know now.
He approached with measured steps, head slightly bowed.
"Elder," he said quietly, voice carrying just enough reverence. "Mira spoke of your wisdom last night. I hoped to offer greeting… and to ask your blessing, if it is not too bold."
Rowan turned fully to face him. Her eyes were pale green, sharp as chipped jade. She studied him the way a jeweler studies a stone that might be glass.
"Alexander Reed," she said. The name rolled off her tongue like a title she was testing for weight. "Mira tells us the Goddess Herself placed you on the hill. That you woke with no past but Her voice in your heart."
He nodded, letting his expression stay open, earnest. "I remember only prayer… and then light. I do not claim to understand it. Only to obey."
A small sound—almost a scoff—escaped her. Not loud enough for cruelty, just enough to signal disbelief.
"Obedience is easily claimed," she replied. "Proof is harder won."
The room had gone quiet. Women paused mid-task, watching. A few exchanged glances.
Rowan lifted one hand. Between her fingers a soft green glow gathered—natural magic, not flashy, but unmistakable. Vines stirred along the beams overhead, leaves unfurling as though spring had arrived in the middle of breakfast.
"Show me," she said simply. "If the Mother truly sent you, Her touch should linger on your skin. Let me read you."
Alex felt the first real prickle of calculation sharpen into focus.
She wants to test for divine residue. The system can fake that. But how much? Too little and I look ordinary. Too much and I risk looking like a fraud trying too hard. Balance. Always balance.
He extended his right hand, palm up.
Rowan stepped closer. Her scent was different from Mira's—cool moss, old parchment, the faint metallic bite of spellwork. She placed her palm an inch above his without touching. The green glow brightened, then flowed downward like liquid light, sinking into his skin.
For a heartbeat nothing happened.
Then the system answered.
A warm pulse bloomed under his ribs—not painful, almost pleasant. Golden threads, faint as gossamer, shimmered up his forearm and coiled around his wrist like living jewelry before fading again.
Rowan's eyes narrowed.
The glow in her hand flickered—once, twice—then steadied.
"Curious," she murmured. "There is something. But it is… veiled. Not the clear signature of a true oracle. More like an echo. A borrowed light."
She withdrew her hand. The vines above stilled.
Alex kept his face calm, letting just a flicker of uncertainty show.
"I never claimed to be more than Her servant," he said softly. "Perhaps I am only a vessel, not the source. I am still learning what She intends."
Rowan studied him another long moment.
Then she spoke, loud enough for the room to hear.
"Last night Mira Thornwood opened her body and her heart to you. She believes you filled her with divine seed. She believes she already quickens."
A murmur rippled through the women. Several touched their own bellies instinctively.
Rowan's voice cut through it.
"I will not call you false—yet. But I will not call you true without more. Tonight, at moonrise, you will come to the Mother's Grove. There we will perform the Rite of Unveiling. If the Goddess truly marked you, the standing stones will sing. If not…" She let the silence finish the threat.
Alex bowed his head.
"I will come, Elder. And I will trust in Her judgment."
Inside: She just handed me the perfect stage. Public ritual. High stakes. Visible magic. If the system gives me even half the spectacle I think it can, she'll be on her knees by midnight begging forgiveness for doubting. And every woman watching will see what happens to skeptics who question the oracle.
Rowan turned away, robe whispering against the floorboards.
"Prepare yourself," she said over her shoulder. "The Grove does not suffer pretense."
As she walked toward the door, Alex caught the faintest tremor in her shoulders. Not fear. Not quite. Something closer to… longing.
She wants to believe, he realized. Desperately. That's the crack I'll widen until the whole wall comes down.
Mira appeared at the top of the stairs then, hair tousled, dress hastily tied, cheeks flushed with sleep and memory. She hurried down, eyes bright.
"Alex—Elder Rowan—"
She saw the tension in the room. Her smile faltered.
Alex crossed to her in three strides, took her hands, pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
"It's all right," he murmured, loud enough for others to hear. "The Elder only wishes certainty. Tonight we give it to her. To all of them."
Mira's eyes shone with tears of pride.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, my lord."
The title landed again—soft, secret, but not secret enough. Several women inhaled sharply.
Rowan paused at the doorway, back stiff.
Then she left without another word.
Alex turned to face the room. Let his gaze sweep slowly across every face—young, old, curious, aroused, devout.
"Tonight," he said quietly, "we learn together what the Mother desires."
Inside the machinery spun faster.
One skeptic. One ritual. One night to turn doubt into worship. After that… the village is mine. And then the valley. And then everything.