Mariana’s glare could have sliced through wind itself. Her jaw was set like carved marble as she exhaled sharply through her nose, then pointed to the empty seat beside her.
"Since you’re here already," she said in that calm yet cutting tone of hers, "you might as well learn. Someday, the place I stand will be yours, and you will judge the offenders of this temple."
Luther raised a brow, his lips twitching upward. "I’ll make sure to bring snacks when that day comes," he muttered under his breath, earning a quiet snort from the sword hanging at his hip.
Mariana’s eyes snapped toward him.
"Did you say something?"
"Only that I’ll... learn diligently, my dear master."
"Hm." Her eyes narrowed, but she turned away.
He followed her gesture and walked to the stand, settling beside her while Father Seraphon occupied the right side. The atmosphere was heavy — the kind that clung to the skin like cold mist before a storm.
In the center of the wide marble hall, Apprentice Harold knelt before the gathered elders, his hands bound, head bowed. Two guards stood flanking him, their armor glinting under the pale light filtering through the stained-glass windows. Rows of elders sat in a semicircle around the platform, their robes of silver and blue marking their ranks within the temple hierarchy.
At the far end, behind Mariana, stood a giant statue of a divine being — a faceless figure wielding a hammer high above its head, as though it could strike judgment down at any moment.
Luther leaned back slightly and whispered, "Remind me again, is this a hearing or an execution theater? The décor’s got more tension than a funeral."
The sword chuckled in his mind, its voice dripping with amusement.
"This hall looks like a gathering of old men pretending to be gods."
Luther muffled a laugh, covering his mouth with a fake cough — but Mariana’s glare snapped toward him once again, silencing the humor immediately.
He straightened, schooling his expression, though a giggle still slipped out before he could stop it.
Mariana sighed deeply, the kind that spoke of a woman resigned to her student’s impossible behavior. She shook her head and turned her attention to the kneeling Harold.
"Apprentice Harold," her voice rang clear across the hall, calm but sharp, "you have committed a grave crime against the Holy Temple. You have stained the name of God Asmethan with your actions."
The air shifted, colder now.
"This crime is one punishable by death," she continued, "but as you are an apprentice of three years’ service, the elders have granted you a dying grace — one chance to speak your final defense."
All eyes turned to Harold.
The young man’s head rose slowly, dark hair falling over his eyes. A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he let out a low, humorless snicker.
"Dying grace?" he repeated, as though the words tasted sour. "How merciful."
His eyes lifted — not to the elders, but to Mariana. "Tell me, Mariana," he said, his tone mocking, "under whose authority are you judging me today? The authority of the former future Saint... or the authority of my beloved?"
A collective gasp swept through the congregation.
Whispers rippled through the circle like waves breaking against stone.
Father Seraphon closed his eyes briefly, sighing into his hand.
Luther blinked, confused. Beloved? What?
Even the sword went silent for a moment before asking in his mind, "Did I miss something, or did the idiot just flirt his way into a death sentence?"
Luther’s lips twitched, but one glance at Mariana’s expression shut the humor down entirely.
Her hair, usually bound in a messy twist, trembled as a faint wind stirred around her. Her grip on the staff in her hand tightened until a faint crack echoed. Her magic aura that surrounded her shimmered faintly, dangerous in its stillness.
"Harold," she said, voice steady but low, "whichever authority I speak with has nothing to do with your actions. You betrayed the temple and violated sacred order. That is what we are here to judge."
Father Seraphon reached over, placing a calming hand on her shoulder.
Mariana inhaled deeply, visibly forcing herself to calm.
"But—" her tone softened slightly, though the words still cut, "—I will not let my personal feelings interfere. You will be judged as the rules dictate, not by emotion."
Harold’s smirk widened, cruel and sharp. "Rules?" he echoed. "Tell me, Mariana, do rules matter to someone like me — someone who had a higher calling than this gilded cage you call holiness?"
Luther tilted his head, brow furrowing. Higher calling? Did he join the circus of heretics or something?
Mariana chuckled — soft, humorless, deadly. "And where," she asked, "did this ’calling’ lead you, Harold? Because from what I see, it led you straight into chains." The source of this content ɪs 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭⚑𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮⚑𝕟𝕖𝕥
A ripple of laughter, hesitant but real, escaped a few of the younger elders.
The sword’s voice returned, snickering. "She got him there. Ten points for your master."
But Harold didn’t back down. His smile faltered, just a little, before twisting into something darker.
"Chains?" he repeated. "No, My beloved. These aren’t chains. They’re the proof that I reached beyond what your God allows. And yet, you... you of all people should understand."
Her eyes flickered, a flash of something unguarded passing through them — regret? pain? It was gone before anyone could name it.
"Enough," Father Seraphon said gently. "This is not a debate of philosophy. We are here to determine your punishment."
But Harold ignored him entirely. He kept his gaze locked on Mariana, as though the rest of the hall had ceased to exist.
"If God Asmethan himself came down today," he said suddenly, his voice ringing loud and mad, "and declared me guilty — would you, Mariana, deliver the punishment as his Saint candidate... or as my wife?"
The words fell like a stone into still water.
The elders’ whispers rose in a roar of disbelief.
Luther’s eyes went wide, his jaw half-open.
"Wait—what—wife?" he mouthed, eyes darting between them.
The sword let out a long, drawn-out whistle.
"Oh... things are about to become very interesting."
The torches lining the walls flickered as though reacting to the tension.
Father Seraphon stood slowly, his expression unreadable, but the faint tremor in his hand betrayed his shock.
Mariana, for the first time in years, looked as though she had been struck silent. Her knuckles whitened around the staff. The crack that had formed earlier spread faintly along its length, light leaking through like golden lightning.
Luther blinked again, frozen in disbelief. His voice was barely above a whisper. "...Did he just say wife?"