Chapter 56 - Most selfish creature in the world

  Ah

  It seemed exploring the temple had been a mistake.

  Ariel’s heart shuddered as she stared at the wall before her.

  The carvings glowed faintly beneath a film of dust, words etched deep into the stone, She couldn’t look away. Those words weren’t foreign. No, they were familiar. Horrifyingly familiar.

  They were the same words sol had spoken to her.

  Her breath caught, the sound trembling in her throat. The air here was colder than it should’ve been, too still, too heavy. With every passing heartbeat, a slow, suffocating weight pressed deeper into her chest, sinking through flesh and bone until it reached her heart.

  She took a step back.

  Her fingers trembled as she reached for the nearest wall , but her hand refused to steady. It was as if the stone itself pulsed with life beneath her skin.

  Ariel’s gaze darted to the others.

  Ryn stood motionless beside her, the faint shimmer of dust suspended in the air around him as if time itself had stopped. Lilia stood a few paces behind, lips parted, eyes wide and glassy, her expression frozen between awe and confusion.

  “Ryn,” Ariel whispered.

  No answer.

  “Lilia—”

  Still nothing.

  Her voice rose, desperation cracking through it. “Ryn! Lilia!”

  Nothing. Her friend's chest didn't rise. Didn't fall. As if breathing itself had stopped.

  Ariel's voice rose, desperation cracking through it. "Ryn! Lilia!"

  She grabbed Lilia's arm—cold, rigid, like touching stone.

  Then the same voice came.

  The same voice that had haunted her dreams.

  It curls around her now, soft and distant, threading through the air like laughter.

  “You made it.”

  The voice was soft at first, almost tender

  Then it came again, brighter, sharper… excited?

  “You really made it!”

  Laughter followed—high, chiming, echoing through the hollow chamber.

  It rolled through the air in uneven bursts, childlike and endless, repeating and repeating until it no longer sounded like joy at all.

  Just noise.

  Noise that didn’t know when to stop.

  How…

  How was it here?

  How was it speaking to her again?

  Ariel had never considered herself a devout follower of the sun god.

  She’d heard that when her mother was younger, she had been deeply religious—but that wasn’t something Ariel ever truly inherited. She prayed because her father expected it, because worship was tradition, because maybe it made her feel less like a failure.

  But never once had she sworn herself to a god.

  There was no reason to. Blessings weren’t given for devotion.

  If that were the case, half of Solvara would have been blessed by Sol.

  The gods existed—She knew, of course she did.

  But this…

  This was different.

  The dream had felt distant, surreal, unreal.

  But now—

  The voice.

  Here.

  Close.

  And yet—

  Her voice broke against the silence.

  “How… are you—”

  The laughter cut her off.

  “How odd…”

  The sound drew closer, circling her in slow, deliberate arcs, a melody with no source and no direction. She could feel the words brushing against her skin, warm at first, then burning.

  “You’ve been here for so long…” it murmured.

  “Too long…”

  The light on the wall twisted, forming spirals that spread outward like veins of molten gold.

  “And yet,” the voice continued, all traces of amusement gone now, replaced by a faint, disappointed sigh,

  “you haven’t started the trial.”

  The walls trembled.

  “I could have sworn,” the voice sounded almost thoughtful “That I told you how…”

  A pause, long enough for the silence to hurt.

  “...Was I mistaken?”

  Ariel turned away, unsure what she was avoiding, and fixed her gaze on the floor. Her fists clenched

  “I don’t want to…”

  The words trembled at first, fragile, barely escaping her lips — but when she spoke again, it was stronger.

  “We cant do the trial!”

  Her voice cracked, echoing through the temple’s hollow air.

  “They’ve suffered enough,” she said, chest heaving.

  “Putting them through pain again isn’t—” her breath hitched, “it isn’t fair on any of them!”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The laughter stopped.

  The dust around her stilled.

  Ariel's hands trembled at her sides. The weight of that silence was worse than the laughter, heavier, sharper, like something watching her through the dark.

  Then the voice returned — slower now, almost curious, as if genuinely puzzled by her resistance.

  “Was I mistaken?” it asked. “Wasn’t your goal to protect them? To make sure they survive… even if you pay the price for it?”

  Ariel’s eyes burned. She threw her right hand back, defiant even as her body trembled.

  “Of course it is!” she cried. “But—”

  She wanted to believe that if Lilia ever learned the truth—

  the real truth, of Solvara's destruction—she would turn away, disgusted, terrified of her.

  But she knew, gods, she knew—Lilia would stay anyway.

  Would choose to stay.

  Even knowing what Ariel was. What she'd done.

  And that terrified her more than anything.

  Because if Lilia stayed willingly—

  Then Ariel would never let her go.

  And for Ryn, it was worse. She doubted he would even give her a choice at all.

  “Throwing them into something we barely understand…” Ariel’s voice came again broken softer now, pleading. “It isn’t going to save them.”

  Her throat tightened. She could still hear his voice — Ryn’s voice.

  “...It’s insanity.”

  The word hung there, trembling, swallowed by the god’s silence.

  Then the world shattered.

  She didn’t even have time to scream before she was gone — ripped from the temple, her body consumed in white flame. Pain flooded every nerve, the kind she remembered too well — the feeling of being burned alive and healed, only to burn again, endlessly. Her skin blistered, split, and reformed in a cycle too fast for thought.

  And then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

  The air softened. The heat vanished. When she opened her eyes, she was standing once more in that field of golden lilies — endless and bright, each bloom swaying in a wind that did not exist, each one laughing?.

  The sound was soft at first, like the rustle of silk, before turning shrill, layered, and wrong.

  And from within that sea of light, the burning figure emerged again.

  Blinding, formless, its outline shifting between human and everything else, too radiant to be seen directly.

  “I see, Apostle,” the voice purred, smooth and mocking. “You’ve surrounded yourself with kind people. Kind friends.”

  The lilies around her swayed faster, their laughter rippling with the god’s voice.

  “They will forgive you, of course — because they’re kind.” The figure tilted its head, a shape of gold fire moving like liquid. “But kindness,” it continued, “kindness can’t keep them alive.”

  Ariel’s breath hitched. She could feel the field leaning toward her, listening.

  “Where will you go from here?” the god asked, almost softly. “I wish for you to grow strong and live… but your convictions…”

  “your convictions don’t align with that.”

  The voice sharpened, slicing through the air.

  “Have you, perhaps, accepted death?”

  Ariel’s hands clenched at her chest, her whole body trembling. “No… no, of course not !”

  “we will survive. We have to.”

  Her fingers dug into her skin until it hurt. “Something will change… We’ll find another way. A way that doesn’t have to do with—” her voice faltered, breaking, “—with either of us hurting ourselves.”

  For a heartbeat, silence.

  Then the laughter grew louder.

  It started low, almost pitying, then rose in waves, wild and bright, echoing from every flower, every petal, every beam of false sunlight until the whole field shook with it.

  “I’ve seen countless selfish creatures in my life,” the god said through its laughter, the tone dripping with delight. “But you…”

  The light flared, swallowing the horizon, its voice stretching into a chorus of children’s mirth and divine mockery all at once.

  “…you, Apostle—”

  The laughter broke into something violent, cracking like glass.

  “—you put them all to shame."

  “Perhaps I’ve grown conceited,” the voice murmured, almost wistful. The light around her dimmed, pulsing like the slow beat of a heart. “I forget sometimes that you are still only a child.”

  The words lingered in the air, gentle, almost fond — but every syllable sank like a hook beneath her skin.

  The laughter that followed was quieter this time, almost human, but far too measured to be real.

  “Even now,” the god continued, “you wait for someone else to save you. For something — anything — to change.”

  The voice shifted, its tone dropping to a silken whisper that seemed to come from beside her ear.

  “The knight. The maid. The world…”

  “Anyone but you.”

  Then sharper, cutting.

  “Anything but acting. ”

  Ariel’s breath trembled. She tried to look away, but the voices moved with her, wrapping around her like chains.

  "You speak of survival, yet isn't the first step of survival to act?"

  The lilies leaned toward her as one, their laughter reduced to a faint, shivering hum.

  “And yet…” The voice curved around her, soft and cruel. “You run. You hide. You whisper of change as if it’s something that might simply find you — as if hope alone could drag you from the grave you dug.”

  The god’s light flared brighter, burning through the petals until they bled gold.

  “Tell me, Apostle,” it whispered. “Is it cowardice that stops you — or comfort?”

  “It’s neither,” Ariel spat, the words tearing out of her like something half-choked.

  "We will act… just not like this. Not a trial." Her voice shook. "There has to be another way. There has to—"

  Her fists clenched, nails digging crescent marks into her palms. The field seemed to recoil, petals shivering in the unseen wind.

  The god’s laughter softened, rippling through the lilies like breath through leaves. “And yet,” he whispered, “you can’t think of anything but hiding until something changes. Even you are aware of it — the inevitability. There is no other choice.”

  “There is a choice!” Ariel’s voice cracked, sharp and desperate. “We’ve survived this long… we’ll make it to the nearest city. We’ll go back to normal.”

  Her voice faltered on that last word.

  A silence followed, vast and suffocating.

  Then the god moved.

  The figure of light began to walk toward her, each step soft and soundless. The glow around him dimmed, shrinking inward, until she could almost make out a face beneath it — shifting, familiar, wrong.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve wondered about you, Apostle…” his tone turned almost conversational, almost amused.

  “Why ‘we’?”

  He inched closer, every word like a hand pressing against her chest.

  “You speak of wanting to protect them. To repay for what you did.”

  A pause. The faintest tilt of his head.

  “So why must ‘we’ do a trial”

  “why do you drag them along with you?”

  Ariel froze.

  “The aberrations were drawn to you,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “You know this. So why didn’t you abandon them? Lead the monsters away? Let them live?”

  The words dug deep, twisting.

  “You could have made it to the trial faster that way,” he continued. “Do it, or don’t — it wouldn’t have mattered. The two would have reached safety. But instead…”

  The god’s light flared again, and for a moment, she saw her reflection in its burning glow, small, trembling, her face streaked with ash and guilt.

  “…you dragged them with you.”

  Ariel had no response. Sweat gathered along her hairline, cold against her skin. Her lips moved, words stuttering and half-formed.

  “Wait…!”

  But nothing came.

  Her voice collapsed into silence.

  The god’s light leaned closer, its radiance softening until it almost resembled a smile.

  “Perhaps I’ve been mistaken all along,” he said, voice like velvet over glass. “You don’t protect them because you’re selfless or brave.”

  He paused — then whispered, low and final:

  “You protect them because you can’t bear to be alone.”

  The lilies froze, the world holding its breath.

  “That’s not love, little one,” the god murmured, the warmth of his tone turning hollow.

  “That’s possession”