By the time we were released from the guild, the sun had already climbed higher.

  I felt warmer now, despite the bone-chilling winds.

  We walked along the street, shaking off the last traces of emotion as we turned to the task at hand.

  First, we would bring Xanthia to the shrine. Then, we would return to the orphanage for Ol' Lucia.

  Initially, Thomas volunteered to go alone, insisting I handle the dock job until he returned.

  But Yarissa's warning still rang in my ears—sending him through the cobbled way alone was clearly unwise.

  We argued, and Thomas yielded. It was Xanthia, clutching his clothes and shaking her head with worry, sealed the matter.

  He agreed at once, before her tears could rise again.

  "What a day, Allen?"

  Thomas's voice was surprisingly cheerful.

  "Hard to say whether it was blessed or cursed, though."

  I shrugged and scratched my head.

  I still couldn't brush off my anxiety about the woodlands.

  He fell quiet for a moment, then suddenly clapped his hands together, eyes alight with zeal.

  "Yes, you're right, Allen! We should offer prayers to Lord Levia! It must be His blessings at work!"

  I was genuinely taken aback by his sudden fervor.

  This was the same guy who only ever eyed the shrine's kitchen soup every weekend, never sparing a thought for Lord Levia himself.

  Knowing him, I guessed this was just another whim—likely as fleeting as his interest in the porcupine scraps at breakfast.

  I gave him my best long-suffering look, dismissing his piety.

  The familiar give-and-take of our banter lifted our spirits by the time we arrived at the shrine.

  The street before the Shrine of Levia was adorned with a myriad of lanterns as the high festival drew near.

  Wooden crates stacked to the brim with wares crowded the entrance—evidence of the feverish preparations for the annual revelry.

  We climbed a flight of marbled stairs to the great door, carved with the image of a serpent rising from stone ripples that resembled the ocean's rolling waves.

  Its eyes, fashioned from large, precious gemstones, cast a watchful gaze upon all who entered.

  A pillar of the ancient trio, the engraved Leviathan exuded an aura of power beyond dispute.

  In our haste, we ignored the serpent's dreadful stare and stepped into the main hall.

  Thomas stopped abruptly. Xanthia, caught off guard, stumbled into his back and pummeled him with her fists.

  This time, however, it was no prank. He turned, pressed a finger to his lips, and whispered:

  "Hush… That's Mayor Markswell and Nolan, before the altar."

  I peered into the hall. At this hour, it should have been empty, yet the figureheads stood there, their voices echoing faintly.

  "Best not to interrupt them. Let's wait aside until he leaves."

  His voice carried a nervous edge.

  I understood his unease—meeting two powerful figures in a single day felt like tempting fate.

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  Nolan, though a council member, was different; he was trusted for his weekly soup kitchen.

  Xanthia nodded quickly, and we scurried to the corner, as quiet as shrine mice.

  The thought amused me—Xanthia would make an adorable little mouse, while Thomas would definitely be an overweight one.

  I stifled a giggle at my own joke and bent an ear toward their conversation.

  "……Demetrus…insolent…Yarissa… the counsel…Merchant Guild…"

  Pompous and stout, the middle-aged, blonde mayor loomed before Nolan.

  His ornate belt, studded with crimson garnets and silverworks, struggled to contain his belly.

  Extravagant as ever, he wore a luxurious tailored leather coat, shimmering faintly.

  Thomas' eyes lit up, and showed off trivia he picked up from the tavern drunkards again. He leaned close, whispering smugly:

  "Did you see that? The gleaming leather coat! Word has it among the manor guards that it is enchanted with mighty wind magic—enough force to repel an entire goblin army!"

  He stared, captivated by the magical garment.

  I could but half-believe the tale, as repelling an army of goblins with a mere magical coat felt profoundly exaggerated.

  Xanthia, too, gazed at the shine with curiosity.

  Broken fragments of speech drifted toward us.

  Markswell's voice was brash, his mood foul as he addressed the head priest.

  Perhaps it concerned Yarissa—her sudden departure from the council meeting had clearly left matters unsettled.

  My attention shifted to Nolan. Clad in a modest, clean-fitting white robe, he was an ancient man with a flowing white beard.

  Ol' Lucia often lavished him with praises for his impeccable etiquette and calm demeanor, urging us to take him as our paragon.

  From our corner, we caught none of his words; he spoke softly, his gestures deliberate. His face serene—a stark contrast to Markswell's flailing hands and exaggerated expressions.

  "Leviafest…rituals…the shore…preparations…nobles……time…"

  All those scraps of talks felt like riddles.

  The exchange lingered until Markswell seized Nolan's hand in a forceful grip and strode towards the door.

  His smug expression was unmistakable even from the sidelines.

  We stiffened as he drew near, but he passed without a glance.

  He was long-accustomed to granting commoners no notice.

  Relief washed over us all at once.

  We approached Nolan. He was offering words of prayers at the altar, focused and deeply devoted.

  The scene was luminous: an intricately wrought silver candle tree held dozens of flames, casting a hallowed glow.

  The air was rich with the scent of flowers and burning incense.

  Beyond his concentrated form rose the stark white monolith, its center etched with a sacred sigil.

  The dark, swirling mark depicted a sea serpent, its body curved into the shape of a rising wave.

  The head rested at the crest, facing inward; the thick lower arc resembled a rolling tide.

  The sigil shimmered faintly, as if a great serpent rose from the surge.

  Enveloped in the serene atmosphere, even cheeky Thomas prayed with rare seriousness, eyes shut tight.

  Xanthia lowered herself fully to the marble floor, prostrating as she murmured her silent prayers.

  It was unusual to see the two so devoted.

  I suspected the incident at the Merchant Guild still haunted them—a memory they were trying to scrub clean with prayer.

  I too felt a quiet gratitude that all had ended well.

  Yet, looking at the monolith now, I couldn't say if mighty gods or beasts truly held sway over our fate.

  Still, as a form of comfort to my heart, I bowed my head slightly and whispered my short and simple prayers—for the safety of everyone in the orphanage.

  Personally, I would always choose to work hard and forge my own strength rather than spend hours praying in shrines, hoping for blessings in dire straits.

  Still, I wouldn't mind praying daily if it guaranteed power.

  The shrine's tales spoke of those blessed with immense strength—power bestowed by Leviathan or other mighty spirits.

  The Unbounds.

  Such a path was harsh and permanent.

  Power was never free; it demanded devotion and service for life.

  A tap on my shoulder pulled me back from my deep thoughts.

  "Allen, Allen? It's time to go now," Thomas whispered.

  Both of them had finished their prayers and were watching me with concern.

  "I'm fine," I quickly reassured them.

  "Just lost in my thoughts."

  Nolan stood nearby, inscrutable as ever. He turned to Xanthia and asked,

  "To the library?"

  Xanthia met his eyes and nodded lightly.

  Nolan returned the gesture in acknowledgement.

  "Diligence and perseverance are the ultimate way to success; you mustn't forget that."

  Xanthia nodded again, clearly joyful at the rare compliment from Nolan.

  "You may go now. Time is of the essence."

  Nolan's words were always laced with these old-fashioned sayings.

  I found it rather boring; perhaps that was simply how older folks spoke—forever dispensing guidance to the young.

  Lost in a decidedly rude thought about Nolan, I watched Xanthia slip out through the wooden door into the library.

  As she left, Nolan called to us,

  "Any other business here, Allen? Thomas?"

  We shook our head in unison.

  Despite his age, he remembered every child who came to his weekly soup kitchen.

  "Come and pray more often," he urged, his gaze lingering on the grand monolith.

  "As imposing as His appearance can be, Lord Levia is merciful. Seek shelter and guidance from Him if you suffer; your prayers will be heard."

  He turned away to tend a guttering candle.

  We gave a final polite nod to Nolan.

  "Thank you for the guidance, head priest. We will take our leave now."

  As we headed for the exit, Thomas whispered,

  "Merciful?"

  A flicker of doubt crossed his face, and he confessed his true feeling:

  "He seemed pretty imposing to me."

  "Well, that's just old man Nolan," I muttered back.

  "He always says stuff like that to children."

  Right now, it was more urgent to focus on our task.

  We left the warm and cozy shrine, bracing the bitter winds on the busy street.