Chapter 62: The Temple of Lumiel
The battle ended only after every Morveth lay dead.
The last Morveth corpse had barely hit the dirt when the group’s leader came striding toward Malrik, crossing the distance with the loose, unhurried confidence of a man who had never once worried about running out of breath.
Up close, he was even larger than he’d looked mid-fight.
His skin carried the smooth, warm tone of polished amber, and his golden eyes swept over Malrik with open, unguarded curiosity. Sweat and Morveth blood streaked down bare, corded arms thick enough to make most trained soldiers look like children by comparison.
"That throw." He nodded toward the spear still buried in the twitching remains of the creature that would have gutted him a heartbeat later. "Good instincts. I let my guard down more than I should have."
"It wasn’t a problem," Malrik said. "We were only passing through."
"Passing through, huh." His grin widened. "Let me guess. Ashmoor?"
"That’s right."
"We just finished our training out here. Heading back the same way." He tilted his head, studying Malrik with the same open curiosity as before. "Mind if we come along?"
Malrik glanced at Eliza. She gave the faintest shrug—which, from her, counted as a full endorsement.
"Sure. Why not."
They fell into step together, the big man matching Malrik’s pace without needing to be asked.
"Name’s Ronan." He offered a hand roughly the size of a dinner plate. "And you?"
"Malrik."
Ronan shook it once, hard enough to test something, then let his gaze linger on the armor Malrik wore. It was light, almost deceptively so, its overlapping draconic scales fitted together with remarkable precision. The craftsmanship was flawless, every piece molded to the wearer’s frame without a single unnecessary seam.
His eyes then rose to Malrik’s face—pale, unblemished skin, features sharp enough to look carved rather than born, the kind of face that belonged in the halls of nobility rather than on a battlefield.
"You’ve got a noble’s look about you." Ronan said it plainly, like he was stating the weather. "What house?"
"Just a mercenary." Malrik gestured behind him. "This is Eliza. And Lily."
"Uh-huh." Ronan’s eyes flicked back to the armor. "Mercenaries I’ve met don’t usually wear gear that costs more than the towns they’re hired to protect."
"I’m a well-dressed mercenary. Is that a crime?"
Ronan let out a booming laugh loud enough to startle a bird out of a nearby tree. "No crime at all." He clapped a hand down on Malrik’s shoulder hard enough to stagger him half a step. "Looks like we’re going to be friends, Malrik."
The guards at Ashmoor’s gate straightened the instant they recognized who was approaching, inclining their heads in deep, respectful bows.
"Welcome back safely, Young Lord Ronan." One of them hesitated, eyes flicking sideways. "Are these strangers traveling with you?"
"They’re friends," Ronan said simply, and that appeared to settle the matter entirely.
As they passed through the gate, Malrik glanced sideways at him. "Seems you’ve got an interesting background, Young Lord Ronan."
"No need for the title. We’re friends now." Ronan grinned, entirely unbothered. "But yes. I’m the eldest son. Saint Marquis Lucien Ashmoor’s boy."
Malrik blinked. Of all the ways he’d expected to meet the heir of a Marquisate, tripping over him mid-brawl on the side of a dirt road hadn’t made the list.
"Actually," Malrik said, deciding to press his luck while the offer of friendship was still warm, "could you help me with something?"
"Name it."
"I’ve met the requirements for a rank advancement. I need a temple to process it."
"Easy enough." Ronan’s grin thinned by a fraction, something flatter sliding into his expression for just a second. "Can’t say I care much for the hypocrites running the place. But I’ll walk you over."
Malrik didn’t ask what exactly Ronan meant by that. If the offer saved him time, he wasn’t going to argue over the details.
Ronan folded himself into Colin’s already-cramped carriage alongside Malrik, Eliza, and Lilith, and the whole vehicle groaned in protest at the extra weight of that much shoulder in one seat. They set off in the direction Ronan pointed.
The Marquisate of Ashmoor, Malrik quickly decided, was a genuinely pleasant place. Clean streets. Well-kept buildings. A clear undercurrent of real military discipline holding the whole thing together without ever needing to announce itself.
Watching it pass by the carriage window, his thoughts drifted, unbidden, to House Vesperion.
Ashmoor couldn’t match the sheer, oppressive weight of the Duchy—nothing here came close to black marble stretching toward vaulted ceilings, or banners bearing a serpent-dragon coiled around the sky. But it carried its own kind of beauty, quieter, less interested in reminding visitors of its own power.
It left him with an unexpected impression. Whatever else Saint Marquis Lucien Ashmoor was, he appeared to be cut from the same cloth as the Duke in at least one regard—they both cared deeply for the people under their protection.
Seated beside Malrik, Ronan pointed out every landmark and scenic view they passed, his voice filled with the quiet pride of someone who genuinely loved his homeland.
The wagon slowed some time later, turning down a wide avenue that opened, without warning, onto something that stole the breath clean out of Malrik’s chest.
The temple, when they arrived, was nothing like what Malrik had pictured.
Malrik had known that the temples held immense authority in this world. Their influence rivaled that of noble houses, and even rulers treated them with caution. Even so, what stood before him was far beyond anything he had imagined.
Rather than a place of worship, it looked like a second palace. White marble gleamed beneath the sunlight, polished to a mirror finish, while intricate gold filigree adorned every archway.
Towering statues of winged figures stood at measured intervals along the outer walls, their silent gazes watching over all who approached.
The Temple of Lumiel. A regional branch of the main temple housed in the capital itself.
This wasn’t merely where rank advancements were processed. It was one of the sacred ground for thousands of believers across the Empire, and, judging by the sheer number of white-armored knights patrolling its grounds with disciplined precision, a considerable military power in its own right.
Malrik filed that away without much surprise. Religion in Valthera wasn’t tucked quietly away from politics—it was one of the pillars the entire world balanced on. Four temples divided the continent’s faith between them, and of the four, the Temple of Lumiel stood among the mightiest forces inside the Valorian Empire, rivaling entire noble houses in influence, if not always in raw military weight.
From the moment they stepped through the outer archway, Malrik counted no fewer than a dozen white-armored knights, each one moving with the same clipped, ceremonial precision.
A commotion near one corner of the courtyard caught his attention before he’d taken ten steps inside.
"Please, Priest, I’m begging you. Heal my daughter. She’s so sick. I’ll serve you however you ask, I swear it."
"Get away from me. I don’t waste my sacred power on vermin like you."
The priest—young, soft-featured, robes far too fine for the disdain twisting his mouth—looked down at the kneeling man like something he’d found on the sole of his boot.
"If you want my power," he continued, bored, "you understand how this works. Something for something. That’s simply how the world turns."
"My lord, I have nothing worthy of your greatness. Please. I’ll be your slave if it means she’s healed."
"Enough of that."
Ronan’s voice cut through before the priest could answer, already crossing the courtyard. "What’s your price, Priest? I’ll pay it myself, if that’s what it takes to help this girl."
The priest’s expression shifted the instant he registered who was speaking. "Young Lord Ronan. It’s been some time." A slick, practiced smile slid into place. "There’s clearly been a misunderstanding here. We help those in need free of charge, of course. No payment required."
Ronan said nothing further. The silence carried the particular weight of a man who’d watched this exact performance play out more times than he cared to count.
The girl was healed within minutes. Her father scooped her up, stammered a dozen thanks in Ronan’s direction, and hurried off before anyone could change their mind.
"Young Lord Ronan," the priest said, turning back, smooth as ever. "What brings you to us today?"
"A friend of mine needs a rank advancement processed."
The priest’s gaze slid to Malrik. Then, more deliberately, to Lilith—lingering there noticeably longer than professional courtesy required. Lilith met the stare without blinking, holding it until he finally looked away first.
"Of course," the priest said, recovering. "It would be my honor to guide you both."
Lilith leaned toward Malrik as they started walking. "I’d rather we not linger here longer than necessary," she murmured. "I don’t feel welcome in this place."
Malrik considered pointing out that a temple built on holy power probably wasn’t thrilled to host something running on demonic energy, but decided the observation could wait.
They followed the priest deeper into the temple, past painted ceilings and gilded pillars, until the corridor opened into a wide chamber dominated by a single statue.
A woman, carved in white stone, stood at its center with her chin lifted and her shoulders squared—not serene, exactly, but proud, almost defiant.
A veil, carved so finely it looked seconds from lifting in a wind that wasn’t there, draped over the upper half of her face. Cradled in both raised hands sat a sphere of crystal, veined through with colors that shifted and clashed against one another, like something trapped mid-argument with itself.
The priest bowed low before it.
"Pay your respects to Lumiel, the Holy Mother," he said, straightening. "Then place your hand upon the stone."
Malrik stepped forward and stood before the statue.
He didn’t believe in the Holy Matriarch. Didn’t believe in much of anything this institution stood for, not after watching how it treated a man with nothing to offer but his own desperation.
He studied the statue carefully and found nothing unusual about the carved woman herself—the only thing humming with anything resembling power was the crystal cradled in her hands. Not the statue. The stone. The same mechanism, he realized, as the Awakening Stone back home.
The crystal was the source of the power. The statue merely framed it.
He ignored the priest’s instructions entirely and pressed his palm straight to the crystal.
A faint smile spread across Ronan’s face.
The priest frowned. Malrik had ignored every customary rite, passing the statue without paying his respects.
Malrik paid him no attention.
He simply placed his hand against the smooth surface.
The instant his palm made contact, the entire stone erupted with emerald-green and black light.
The radiance burst outward like a tidal wave, engulfing the chamber in an instant.
An indescribable pressure descended upon him.
It felt...familiar.
It was the same sensation he had experienced during his Awakening.
Only this time, it was incomparably greater.
Then, a familiar voice echoed within his mind.